


Born in Shadow

by Camorra



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Found Family, M/M, Nanny to Friend to Lover, Orihara-kai
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-07-29 20:16:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 39,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16271561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camorra/pseuds/Camorra
Summary: Those born in shadow are forever stained by it.But that doesn't mean they can't thrive.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drx/gifts).



> almost a year in the making and more than four rewrites and here we are.  
> and i mean we. i stole some things (read: everything) from varrix, and then yu-yu read through the whole thing for typos. incredible. i owe her my life.  
> please watch the tags for warnings as the story progresses.  
> and without further ado, onwards and forwards!

More people show up at his mother’s funeral than he expects.

It’s not a good thing.

“A beautiful woman like your mother,” a man he doesn’t know says to him, the scent of his cologne heavy and cloying, “gone forever.” The man shakes his head sadly, like Haruya’s mother has _disappointed_ him in some way by dying. In a way that makes Haruya want to smash a flower vase over his head and scream in his face: _she wasn’t yours._

The room is mostly filled with people like him. Older, nice suit, nice watch. A sort of air that expects respect. People Haruya doesn’t know.

His mother’s clients have come in droves.

“Thank you for your condolences,” Haruya says instead, even though the man isn’t listening and he’s not sure it was a condolence anyway.

Haruya’s the youngest one in the room by far, and everyone knows who he is. They cast critical eyes over him, looking for his mother’s beauty. Looking for her grace and charm and coming up wanting.

He’s the spitting image of his father, and he can feel it in the stares from those he _does_ know. The neighbors and family friends. The ones that are looking for the cracks in his mask that will show his mother’s softer, emotional influence. They won’t find them.

Somehow, his mother’s funeral is more exhausting than her actual death.

And it’s not proper, it’s not right, but he ducks out for a moment.

Not that he finds much relief, it’s just as suffocating outside as in. He’s barely two steps out when his collar begins to cling to the back of his neck and his borrowed pants cling to his legs.

He leans against a wall, hoping the black fabric won’t show the inevitable filth transfer. The cons of being a high-schooler, not much money to lavish your mother with the funeral she deserves.

At least this place has AC, he’s not sure what he’d do if he had to put up with all of… _this_ in the cloying heat.

He shoves his hand in his pocket, but comes up empty. Ah, it is a borrowed suit after all.

He remembers looking at his cigarettes before leaving, deciding against it at the last moment. Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

Just. Just five minutes, and he’ll go back in.

Just enough time to clear his head.

There’s the _click-clack_ of expensive shoes over to his right, slowly coming closer, but he doesn’t open his eyes to see who it is.

Not until they stop next to him.

There’s the click of a lighter and the sweet smell of burning tobacco.

“You look like you could use one.”

The voice is warm, rich. Unfamiliar. Haruya opens his eyes to see one of his mother’s clients. Nice suit, nice watch. Air of slick superiority. Haruya can’t see this man getting denied anything, wheedling out of others what they don’t just give up outright.

“Tough crowd in there,” the man says, a box of cigarettes extended.

“I’m underaged,” Haruya says, not moving.

The man laughs, musical and infectious. “Well, I’m hardly a cop. Or gonna fault you, I wasn’t much older than you when I started.”

“Generous,” Haruya says before he can stop himself, but he only gets that laugh again as he takes a cigarette.

“‘Sides, rough day for you. Mother dies and the vultures come to pick at her remains. Woman like that deserves better, that’s for damn sure.”

“You knew my mother?”

The man grimaces. “Sorta, I knew your father,” the man says. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, “he was a piece of shit.”

It’s not like he’s gonna disagree with that.

“But he was a _competent_ piece of shit,” the man continues, “If you’re half as good as he was at getting crap done, you’ll go far.”

“I’ve been told I’m exactly like my father,” he says, and he manages to keep most of the contempt and almost all of the rage out of his voice.

“I would fucking _hope_ not.” There’s a critical eye cast over him. “And you seem to think so, too.”

“What gave me away?”

“Can’t imagine anyone with a shred of decency wanting to be like him. And most without would probably still be insulted if you compared them with Sen.”

Haruya takes a drag off his borrowed cigarette, “So, if you didn’t know my mother, and think my father’s a rat bastard, what are you doing here?”

“I’m here for you.”

Shiki doesn’t snort but it’s a close thing.

“Not in the way those fuckers are here for you, yeah? I’m not here to see if you’re pretty enough to take home to see if I can get you to fuck me, I’m interested in your accomplishments.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“Well,” the man says. “You’ve somehow managed to single-handedly arrange a funeral in two days without getting monetarily screwed over, put the word out, and not dip in your school work. Be a shame to let talent like that go to waste. I want you to come work for me.”

“Is that so?” Haruya says, rapidly beginning to lose interest. He’s really not interested in whatever Ponzi scheme some fucker’s trying to peddle him in his time of emotional vulnerability. Not that’s he’s vulnerable. But others don’t know that.

“Listen. You got what, half a year of school left? I’ll pay for the rest, and you come work for me when you’re done, alright? See if you’re half as good as that bastard. What do you think of that?”

That perks his interest right back up.

“I think it sounds too good to be true.”

The man laughs, and it’s a warm, rich sound. “Not at all. Gotta take care of those in your employ, right? They’re family, after all.”

Family? Haruya’s an idiot. Nice suit, expensive watch. He’d written him off as a salarymen here to coo over his mother’s corpse.

But that was a mistake. Eyes are sharp, and his body posture is relaxed, but there's an awareness about it. He’s been in fights before, you can tell, and he’s got the air of barely restrained violence about him.

He’s so clearly yakuza Haruya’s shocked he could have missed it.

“So you were in with my father’s crowd, huh? What makes you think I wanna go dirty like that?”

“A lotta things. For one, you don’t have much choice. What a _scowl_ you’ve got there, kid. But hey, it’s not my fault you’ve got a criminal record, huh?”

“How’d you know about that?”

“I know a lot of things. Like how your grades were _excellent_ up ’till a year ago. Not top of the class, but no slouch either. I know how you’ve been runnin’ one of the local color gangs—” the man holds a hand up. “Oh, maybe not in name. But in practice, yeah? De facto if not de jure.”

“Who are you?”

“Orihara Shirou. I run a small business around here.” Orihara’s smirk grows at Shiki’s skeptical look, “no, really. I’m looking for sharp, competent men I can trust. Are you one of those sorts of people?”

Shirou hands him a business card. It’s black letters printed on thick, white paper. Classy. A name and a phone number, no tittle, no job description.

An address scrawled on the back is in sharp, spidery handwriting. If Shiki was a believer in handwriting analysis, he’d say the man that wrote was in a hurry, like his hand couldn’t keep up with his mind.

“I don’t know. Are you one of those men that deserves loyalty?”

“Interesting answer. How about I give you a chance to find out?”

“I’ll give it some thought,” Shiki says, tucking the business card into the pocket of his suit.

“Excellent,” Shirou says, clapping a hand on Shiki’s shoulder, grasping it firmly. “You can think about it over dinner.”

“Pardon?”

“My family would love it if you could join us for dinner,” Shirou continues, steering Haruya by the shoulder to an idling car. “We’re having pork.”

“I’d hate to—”

“Nonsense,” Shirou says cheerfully, tightening his grip on Haruya’s shoulder. “It’s our treat really.”

And Haruya’s in a car with Shirou before he even knows it.

“My wife, Kyouko, that is, she’s brilliant,” Shirou’s saying, as Shiki tries to quietly pry on the door handle. No luck. “Passed it straight on to our son. He’s something special, alright. He’ll do great things.”

Shirou continues in this vein as tall sky scrapers become low buildings become large estates. Or what he assumes are large estates, it’s hard to verify over the massive, imposing walls that enclosed each property. From what Haruya’s hearing, Shirou’s family is made up entirely of gods come down to earth, so far above normal men that Haruya should skip introductions and simply fall to his knees in prayer upon meeting them.

“Here we are,” Shirou says at last, clambering out the door of the car, “home at last.”

It’s not as much a _house_ as it is a palace, from the extensive grounds just visible from the front drive to the massive mansion in front, all emanate class and wealth in an almost overbearing way. That may be the point.

The front door swings open to reveal a woman standing just inside the threshold. Shirou walks over and kisses her hand with chivalry long thought dead. “It’s been too long without your lovely visage, my love.”

And he’s not exaggerating. She’s beautiful, long black hair falls down her back in waves, frames a face with sharp, delicate features and huge eyes. Her skin is porcelain pale and her eyes such a light shade of brown, the light almost makes them red.

She’s also hugely pregnant, stomach swollen and large. But somehow she still manages to move with an economical grace that doesn’t seem possible.

“Shirou, stop, it’s only been two hours.”

“Far too long,” Shirou repeats, but moves past her into the house.

Her eyes scan Shiki as he approaches in a once-over that makes Shiki feel like he’s been cut open and examined for his worth, each organ weighed for the money it might bring.

But she smiles at him, and he feels like he passed the test. That she found some worth that he wasn’t aware of.

She dips into a bow, really more of nod of the head. “I’m Orihara Kyouko. I believe you’ve met my husband, Shirou?”

Manners hammered in over years at his mother’s knee rear their head over his displeasure at being kidnapped. “I’m Shiki Haruya,” he says, dipping into a lower bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Kyouko’s eyes are back on him when he straightens, but she’s smiling slightly. “I see your mother taught you well, you have her grace.”

“You knew my mother?”

Kyouko inclines her head, beckoning him inside the house. “Of course. My condolences on her passing, she was a lovely woman. There aren’t many like her, kind and gentle and understanding. She will be dearly missed.”

The words could have been ripped from any eulogy across the country. They’re standard, rout. But their delivery is something else. There isn’t false sympathy, it’s not the tone of those at the funeral, the tone that screams louder than anything that they couldn’t care less. That their thoughts were never with the dead woman in the coffin or the son she left behind, only themselves and the ripple of grief they’re trying to stretch into a tidal wave.

She sounds like she means every word, genuinely.

“Ah, thank you,” Shiki manages, voice higher and tighter than he would like. There are tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, but he blinks them away, hoping Kyouko didn’t notice. If she did, she’s polite enough not to say anything. “And thank you for inviting me to your home for dinner, it’s beautiful.”

“It’s our pleasure,” Kyouko says with a mildly wry tone and a small smile. “Though I apologize for my husband’s… _excitability._ He can be a bit direct when there’s something he wants.”

“It’s no issue,” Shiki lies.

But Kyouko smiles at him. “I’m afraid dinner’s not quite ready, if you’d like to wait in the living room?” Kyouko rests a hand on her stomach. “I’m loathe to leave a guest alone, but there are some things I must attend to.”

“Of course,” Shiki says, and Kyouko ghosts off with a small smile.

The living room is as tastefully decorated as the rest of the house, simple traditional decorations adorn the walls. The colors are equally as simple, black and white with splashes of something brighter here and there. It’s the kind of simplicity that speaks of immense wealth, each piece well-made and crafted.

The seats are comfortable, but Shiki soon finds himself folding his hands in his lap, back ramrod straight. For all the tasteful decoration, there’s not much indication of the personality of those that inhabit the house. No books litter the surface of the coffee table. No magazines, no cups, not even a TV.

There’s a small noise from the door, and Shiki stands and sees a small child standing in the doorway.

Shiki thinks it might be a girl at first, features delicate like their mother’s, but the swagger in his step as he comes further into the room is all male. There’s no hesitance in his step or his eyes as he comes closer, even at finding a stranger in his home.

“Who are you?” he boy says, peering Shiki up and down in much the same way his mother had, and Shiki can _feel_ another layer of skin being peeled away. “You’re too young to work for my father.” The boy tilts his head, considering. “I take that back. But you’re far too young to be the sort that comes to the house.”

“I think I’m about the usual age for recruitment into your father’s sort of business,” Shiki says wryly.

“Not really,” the boy says, coming further in. “Usually the yakuza wait until after high school to recruit. But that isn’t what I meant, anyway.”

“Oh? And where did you get your information from?”

“It’s accurate,” the boy says, mouth twisting into a small frown. “Just because I’m young doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Shiki says mildly, putting his hands in his pockets. “I only asked where you heard it. It’s not something that comes up often.”

“Oh.” The boy brightens instantly. “Well, that’s easy enough. Daddy runs a yakuza family. But you should have known that, so what are you doing here?”

“I was invited for dinner.”

“Huh,” the boy says, coming even closer. “That’s odd. Daddy doesn’t usually invite people over for dinner anymore. Not after he killed the last one.” As soon as he says that, a smile blooms across his face.

On the outside, it’s nearly angelic.

If you were _blind._

It’s not fake, the emotion behind it is genuine, that much is easy to tell. It might not even be purposefully angelic, it might just be the combination of beautiful features and honest joy. But the intent behind it feels malevolent, it’s like staring straight into the eyes of a demon.

“I’m Orihara Izaya,” the child says, dipping into a tiny bow. “What’s your name?”

“Shiki Haruya,” Haruya says, not particularly comfortable with giving him any more information than he feels he’s sucked out.

“Haruya. Spring-time,” Izaya says. “Some people say names are descriptive of the person. Do you believe that?”

“I don’t know,” Haruya says. “Do you?”

“It seems to be right, most of the time,” Izaya says. “But you don’t seem very spring-like. Then why are you called Spring?”

“Why are you called Izaya? What does that mean?”

Izaya smiles lazily. “It’s spelled using ‘rin.’ To look over.”

“Does that suit you?”

Haruya thinks it does, from the entire minute he’s spent in Izaya’s company.

“I think so,” Izaya says.

“Because you’ve been trying to live to your name or because it suits you regardless?”

Izaya’s lips curl into a frown and there’s a small line that appears between his eyebrows. But at that moment, Kyouko enters the room. “Ah, Shiki, I see you’ve found Izaya.” Then she glances down. “Go wash your hands, sweetheart, dinner is ready.”

The dining room is, of course, large enough to sit a king and his entourage.

“It’s delicious.”

“Thank you,” Kyouko says, “I’ll pass your compliments along to Umiko, she’s never cooked anything we didn’t like yet.”

“Yes, she has,” Izaya says, eating his carrots with a sort of resigned acceptance, “there was that pork thing. With the pineapple.”

“Are you sure that had nothing to do with the chips you were gorging yourself on before dinner?” Kyouko remarks dryly as her son turns a bit red and sniffs. “And trying to hide being full?”

“No,” Izaya says, puffing his cheeks out. “Sometimes I just don’t like the food.”

“Odd,” Kyouko says, as Izaya puts another piece of pork in his mouth. “Because you seem to like it tonight just fine.”

Izaya opens his mouth and lets the pork roll off his tongue onto his plate with a wet plot.

“ _Izaya!”_ Kyouko snaps with horror as Shirou laughs his deep belly laugh. “We have a _guest.”_

“Soooo?” Izaya says, casting his eyes on Haruya. “He doesn’t care. Why is he here anyway? He’s nobody.”

_“Izaya.”_

“It’s true,” Izaya says. “He’s never come up before, why’s he here _now?_ In our _house?_ You never let anybody in our house anymore. _”_

Haruya wants to go tense, but he doesn’t. Continues eating, even if he’s just as curious as Izaya. Maybe more so.

“Well, I’ve—” Shirou starts.

“He’s going to be your caretaker,” Kyouko says, voice clear and authoritative. It seems to ring around the dining room for a moment.

Haruya’s pork hits in plate much like Izaya’s had.

Izaya looks to Shirou helplessly, clearly hoping against all hope that Kyouko’s pulling some sort of nasty prank.

“More like a nanny,” Shirou says instead, cheerfully. “He’ll be living with us.”

Izaya opens his mouth but Kyouko cuts him off. “It doesn’t matter if you want one, Izaya. You need one.”

“So you’re going to pawn me off to someone you found on the streets?”

“Hardly,” Shirou says. “We chose him very carefully. His qualifications are impressive, right, darling?”

“Yes,” Kyouko’s head tilts up the tiniest fraction, looking down at her son, and it all becomes clear where Izaya got the majority of his mannerisms from. “And you’ll respect his word and decisions. You can learn a lot from him, if you choose to.”

“I don’t want a babysitter,” Izaya says, tiny hands curling tightly around his chopsticks. “I don’t _need_ one.”

“You do,” Kyouko says mildly, “and that’s settled.”

“Why? I’m smarter than him.”

“You’re ten,” Kyouko says, settling her chopsticks down on the edge of her plate. Haruya eyes the door warily, counting the meters. There’s too much open space for him to make a clean break. “There’s things you don’t know, that you simply haven’t _experienced_ that no amount of intelligence will make up for.”

Haruya decides to not be offended and simply keeps eating his delicious food, steadily. He’s heard that snakes can smell fear and attention is the last thing he wants.

“I think I’ve experienced _plenty,”_ Izaya says. “Why do we need _him?_ We’ve been okay so far.”

“Things will be different when your sisters are born, Izaya,” Kyouko says. And the tone is gentle, but Shiki gets the impression she’s said this many, many times.

“But why?”

“Babies are a lot of work, Izaya,” Shirou says, “They can’t do anything for themselves. You have to watch them _all_ the time.”

Shiki can see it before it happens. He can tell Kyouko can too, by the way two fingers come to delicately pinch her nose and her gusty sigh.

But Shirou’s halfway out of his seat before the first fake tear rolls its way towards his quavering lips.

“You won’t have time for me anymore?” Izaya whines, voice wobbling like a pro.

“That’s not it at all, ‘Zaya,” Shirou says, Izaya already wrapped into his arms. “We’ll still have time for you, just a little less.”

Izaya gives a mighty sob, fingers coming up to clench in the back of Shirou’s jacket, bunching expensive fabric between tiny fingers. “The twins will come and you’ll forget about me. You’re just trying to push me off on someone _else_.”

He can’t see Izaya. Hasn’t known him very long, but that smacks of the fears of an only child being pushed off his throne, and it’s not layered with a fake trembling, but a strained highness that makes it sound very, very sincere.

“That’s not true,” Shirou says, “we’re just making sure that you have all the freedom you could want, huh? He’ll be living here, too. We’ll just be a little bit busier with your sisters, but I _promise_ we’ll always have time for you.

There are a few fake sounding sniffles. “Promise?”

“I swear. And if I break it, I’ll cut off my—”

“ _Shirou.”_

“I’ll make it up to you,” Shirou finishes.

“And Shiki will play with me?”

“Whenever you want,” Shirou says, with complete and utter confidence.

Izaya pulls away from Shirou’s shoulder with a few considering sniffs, and looks Haruya’s way.

There’s a calculating look in his red eyes, one that knows he’s got all the power on his side.

Izaya smiles, and Haruya _swears_ he can see more teeth than there should be crowding that child’s mouth.

“Let’s be friends, Shiki-nii-san.”

❖

Not long after, Izaya’s whisked away by Kyouko to start preparing for bed, but Haruya manages to catch Shirou in the hallway before he hits the stairs.

“About this whole nanny thing—” Haruya starts.

Shirou waves a hand. “I’m sure you’ll do fine, Izaya’s a wonderful kid.”

“That’s not what I—”

Shirou stops abruptly. “Of all the things the son of Shiki Sen should have learned over his life, the first should have been that _nothing_ is free.” Shirou only turns to look over his shoulder. “I see something in you, Shiki Haruya. I _want_ you to come work for me. I think you’ll do very well, that you’ll be an asset. But the fact is that you’re only sixteen, and not even done with school.”

“Yes, but I—”

Shirou turns to face him fully. “Is asking you to watch _one_ child in exchange for living in my house, paying your tuition, feeding you, clothing you _really_ too much to ask?”

Shiki blinks. Shirou’s breath fans over his face. “No.”

“I trust my son with _very_ few people, you understand,” Shirou says, and if his son is the spitting image of his mother, he got his shark-tooth smile from his father.

Haruya stares right back. If the wolf wants to eat him, running with his tail between his legs only prolongs the misery.

“That’s understandable.”

Shirou backs up a step with an odd smile. “You don’t scare easy, do you?” Shirou claps a hand on his shoulder. “That’s good. I’m sure you’ll need it.”

Shirou walks away at the same moment a delicate touch lands on his shoulder.

“I can show you to your room now, if you’d like to rest,” Kyouko says. “I’ve asked Izaya to give you a tour of the house tomorrow, introduce you to the staff.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Haruya says, trailing at Kyouko’s side.

“It’s nothing,” Kyouko says, taking the stairs slowly, if steadily. “All the bedrooms are upstairs.”

“Must be a hassle.”

“It’s getting to be,” Kyouko admits. “Would you believe I’m only in my second trimester? I think I might need to move downstairs to survive this one.”

“With intelligence like yours, I’d believe anything you told me.”

He’s not sure what the sound that comes out of Kyouko is at first. He thinks maybe she’s stubbed her toe, makes a move to catch her elbow. But she makes that noise again and throws her head back.

She’s _laughing._

“How _charming_ you are,” Kyouko says, still shaking a little. “And only sixteen. Be careful with that tongue of yours, it might get you into trouble one day.”

“Or straight out of it.”

“Ah, but pretty words only work on those willing to hear them. Be careful not to charm the wrong girl.” Kyouko looks out from the corner of her eye with a small smirk. “Or boy, as it may be.”

“What do you—”

“Ah, right here.” Kyouko pushes open a door. “I didn’t know what kind of style, I had Yuki pick out something neutral. You’re welcome to decorate, of course, you will be here for a few years, after all.”

“Years?”

“Until you’re of age, of course. Can’t let a sixteen-year-old live alone, now can we?”

His new room is bigger than his entire apartment, tastefully decorated in tans and whites and grays. A bathroom peaks out from behind a nearly closed door. A bed large enough for him and three of his close friends sits in invitingly in a corner. A large desk crouches against a wall. On top of it, textbooks he’s never seen before. A new-looking bag leans against the bottom.

Kyouko sees him looking. “Your school is a bit far now. About a two hour commute by public transport. There are several nearer, I can arrange to have you take the entrance exams, if you wish.”

If he wishes, huh?

“I don’t know if you plan to go to college, but even if you don’t, a more _specialized_ curriculum can be taught. Something you might find more useful in the coming years.”

“I see.”

“There should be soap in the bathroom and such, if you wish to take a shower. Your clothes should be in your closet.”

He wouldn’t be surprised to open the closet in the corner and see his clothes hanging in neat rows.

He wouldn’t be surprised to open it and see clothes he’s never seen before carefully selected to match the family aesthetic.

“It was hard to guess your size, do let me know if it’s too large.”

He takes a few steps, walks around the room slowly.

It’s clean. The air is cool, comfortable and not the sticky clinginess of a hot apartment above a greasy shop.

Haruya stops, looks out the window. It’s a stunning view, out over the grounds of the house. Trees and winding stone paths and streams and little ponds.

There’s no neon sign to reflect back into the window. Only the sound of crickets and cicadas, none of the sounds of human life and shrieking and mess.

“Good night, Shiki.”

Haruya turns to reply, but Kyouko’s already gone, leaving him alone in his borrowed funeral suit in a room full of questions.

❖

Hewakes up to a pressure on his chest.

He blinks open bleary eyes to see red eyes staring down at him. “I’m hungry.”

“What?”

“I’m hungry,” comes again, slower. Izaya frowns down at him, clearly unimpressed. “They said you were _smart._ ”

“Aren’t you old enough to get your own food?”

Izaya scoots back to sit on Haruya’s stomach instead, apparently trying to squeeze his stomach out through his throat. He’s fully aware of how uncomfortable it is, Haruya can see it in his eyes.

“We’re having family breakfast. But Daddy won’t start making food until everyone is downstairs.”

Haruya glances to his left, at his empty bedside table, where his alarm clock doesn’t sit.

“It’s seven thirty,” Izaya says irritably. “Far past time to be up.”

“It’s summer. Don’t you sleep in? Now that you don’t have school?”

“What for? I still _do_ things. I’m not lazy. And Mommy and Daddy still have work. They do every day.”

“I get it, I get it. I’m getting up.”

Izaya clambers off of him and waits expectantly in the doorway.

“I’ll come down in a moment.”

Izaya continues to stand in the door.

“I want to get dressed.”

Izaya continues to stand in the door.

“Generally people do that _alone._ ”

“What for? I’m not dressed. We’re all in our PJ’s. Even Mommy.”

“It’s rude.”

“It’s rude to keep me waiting for _food_ and here you are.”

A slow breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. “Right.”

The air is cold when he flips the covers off, and the wood floor is colder.

Izaya grabs at the edge of his sleeve when he gets close enough, apparently terrified that he might make a break for it and further delay the arrival of food.

“So what do you usually do during your summer break, if sleeping isn’t allowed?”

Izaya hums. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“Lots of things. The weather, for one. What I feel like doing.”

Izaya lets go of his sleeve to hop up onto the banister of the stairs, wobbling slightly as he regains his balance.

Well, that’s an awful idea.

He holds a hand up for Izaya to grab onto, slowly taking each step as Izaya places one foot in front of the of the other.

“What do you usually feel like doing?”

“Mommy doesn’t like it when I go out on my own,” Izaya says, gripping Haruya’s hand tighter as he wobbles a little to the left. “So Daddy said I couldn’t. So lately I’ve been reading and doing things here.”

“Like what?”

“It’s a secret.” He doesn’t have to look up to see the smirk on Izaya’s face, he can hear it clear as a bell. “But Mommy says that we can go out together, as long as I stay within your sight.”

“Did she now? And where were you hoping to go?”

Izaya’s toes curl around the edge of the banister before he makes an elegant leap to land on the hardwood floor with barely a sound.

“Just to the park,” Izaya says, in a tone that’s supposed to convey flippancy, and misses the mark by a good mile.

“Izaya, I told you, Shiki won’t be available until later today, he has things to do.”

Kyouko glides around the corner, hair pulled back into a loose bun. If Izaya hadn’t said she was still wearing her pajamas, Haruya would have never guessed. He makes an effort not to guess at the price of the robe that drapes her shoulders, intricate embroidery swirling to the sleeves.

“I know. But _after,_ ” Izaya whines, twirling out from under Haruya’s arm and rushing to his mother. “He can’t be busy _all day._ He’s supposed to be mine, after all.”

Kyouko pats him on the head. “Of course, of course. Go help your father in the kitchen, I think he’s willing to let you cut the strawberries.”

Izaya’s off like a shot, back the way Kyouko came, bare feet almost silent on the floor.

Kyouko turns to follow him. “Well, come on. Shirou’s cooking isn’t half bad. But don’t tell him I said that, I’m not sure we could survive another round of Culinary Master Shirou.”

“Was it that bad?”

“No,” Kyouko says, sounding a bit put out. “It was _delicious._ I gained five pounds in a month, it was awful.”

When they round the corner, he runs into a wall of scents. There’s a smell of cooking meat and the yeasty smell of bread. There’s the tangy smell of pressed citrus and the muted sounds of metal hitting wood.

“Certainly smells like he knows what he’s doing.”

“He can do just about anything he sets his mind to,” Kyouko smiles, soft and wistful. “And if he can’t, he’s got the stubbornness and ferocity of a dog to see him through till he can.”

“You sound like you talk from experience.”

“Many times over.”

“How long have you and Shirou been married, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“A good while, about fifteen years now. Longer than Izaya’s been around, that’s for sure.”

“That’s not why I—”

“Oh, I know. You’re a sweet boy, don’t let Izaya walk all over you, thinking he knows everything there is to know. He’s intelligent, but he’s young yet.”

And with that, Kyouko pushes open a door to reveal a kitchen that seems much too large for the small family it feeds.

If Kyouko looks like she could walk on to a catwalk and not be out of place, Shirou looks like he crawled out of a dumpster, all baggy plaid and too-big t-shirt. He’s got an apron on over it all that says: Trophy Husband.

A waffle maker hums happily as bacon crackles and eggs fry. Izaya’s standing on a stool wielding a plastic knife, mangling some strawberries beyond recognition.

“Why can’t I have a _real_ knife?” Izaya’s saying, poking despondently at a strawberry. “I’m old enough now.”

“Not quite, tiger, not quite.”

“Don’t think we don’t know what happened to the dead squirrel,” Kyouko says.

Izaya turns back to chopping the strawberries with his plastic knife.

“Shiki,” Shirou booms, “glad to see you’re up. We’re generally early risers in this family, no rest for the wicked, right, tiger?”

“Right!” Izaya says as Shirou swipes a strawberry off his cutting board. “Hey! You can’t eat those yet!”

“Eat what?” Shirou says, turning back to the bacon. “Honey, do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”

“Not a clue.”

“See? It’s not nice to slander my good name, Izaya. Very cruel of you.”

Izaya looks at Haruya with big eyes and an expression that says, _you saw that,_ _right? Say something._

Instead, Haruya saunters over to where Izaya is pouting over his strawberries, palming a saltshaker as he goes. He leans against the counter, sliding a strawberry glop closer with a finger, salting it a little. Leaving it as easy prey. Tells Izaya: “It’s easier to cut strawberries if you take the green top off first.”

“Oh,” Izaya says, sawing at a different strawberry, “okay.”

Haruya grabs another plastic knife out of the box and joins Izaya in mangling the strawberries. Izaya wasn’t just trying to make a point, these really are the worst, they seem to actually try and bend away from where he wants to put them.

“Hope you like waffles, Shiki,” Shirou says, wiggling something in a pan on the stove. “They’re one of Izaya’s favorite foods.”

“No, they’re not,” Izaya says calmly, “they’re one of yours.”

“So we make them often,” Shirou says, wiggling fingers finding Izaya’s stomach as Izaya screeches a giggle, batting at him with his plastic knife.

“I’m _hit,”_ Shirou cries, as Izaya’s knife bounces off his cheek. “I’m _done for.”_ Shirou’s arm snakes out to grab a strawberry off the board, spinning away as Izaya calls out: “ _Nooo,”_ laugh still ringing in his voice.

Shirou pops his stolen goods in his mouth with a wink, face twisting as the salt hits, not so stealthily spitting it into his hand.

Izaya bursts into gales of laughter, light and sweet, joining Kyouko’s rough bray of laughter in the corner.

“You’re so cruel, ‘Zaya,” Shirou whines. “You get that from your mother. I’m so _proud_.”

“Oh, Shiki,” Kyouko says, “do you drink coffee?”

“Yeah,” Haruya says, though he’s sure she knew that.

“How do you take it?”

“Black, thank you.”

“Have you tried it with cream and sugar?”

“I’m not a fan of sweet things.”

“Nonsense,” Kyouko says, setting a cup by his elbow. “You’re far too young to be drinking coffee black, it leaves you nowhere to go when you get stressed.”

“She’s right, you know,” Shirou pipes up. “Besides, cream helps the caffeine hit faster.”

“I want some,” Izaya says, trying to snake around Haruya’s side to get at it.

“Of course,” Shirou says.

“No,” Kyouko says.

“When you’re older,” Shirou amends.

“Why?” Izaya whines, continuing to try to contort around Haruya’s torso. He pretends not to notice and takes a sip instead.

It’s good, sure. The cream makes the acidity less harsh and the sugar makes it sweet and it doesn’t have the lingering taste of cardboard like the coffee from the convenience store around the corner always does.

Did.

“Ah, I almost forgot,” Kyouko says, before disappearing into the hallway.

“Quick,” Shirou says, passing Izaya his mug. “And don’t tell your mother.”

Izaya gleefully wraps his hands around the mug, taking a mighty swing. His face twists into a grimace and his cheeks bulge but he valiantly swallows the coffee down.

“How’d you like it?”

“It’s great,” Izaya croaks.

Shirou laughs, clapping Izaya on the back. “Don’t worry, my boy, it’ll grow on you.”

Izaya looks like he rather doubts this, but he doesn’t say anything.

Kyouko comes back with a box in her hands, “Shiki, we got you a phone. It’s a pretty standard smartphone in most ways, but it has some special features I’d like to show you how to use.”

“What?” Izaya says, “Shiki gets a phone?” Izaya collapses into a small heap on the floor, arms flailing dramatically. “I want a phone, I’m the only one without one.”

“When did I say you’d get a phone, Izaya?”

Izaya mumbles something Shiki can’t quite catch.

“Use your words.”

Izaya heaves a mighty sigh, “when I’m fourteen.”

“That’s right.”

“But what if it’s _urgent?”_ Izaya says, “what if it’s an emergency, ne? What if the school is on fire?”

“He’s got a point, sweetheart,” Shirou says, looking so utterly torn.

“Then stop setting the school on fire,” Kyouko replies. “Shiki come here, I’ll show you how to use our computer system.”

Their computer system?

“Wait a bit, sweetheart,” Shirou says, “this is family time. Work can wait for a bit.”

Kyouko blinks, but does put Shiki’s phone on the kitchen table. “I suppose you’re right. But Shiki, don’t hesitate to call me if you have any issues. Maybe hesitate to call Shirou, he’s very protective of Izaya. Might not give the clearest advice.”

“Hey!” Shirou says, collecting food and setting it on the table. “I’m excellent in times of crisis!” Then he looks kind of sheepish, “but maybe do call Kyouko, she’s definitely the better communicator.”

Watching Izaya eat is.

Horrifying.

“Izaya, honey, slow down,” Kyouko says gently. “It’s not going anywhere.”

Haruya doesn’t really think the speed is the issue. It’s the volume. It suddenly makes sense why the kitchen would be so big, if Izaya can eat enough for three.

Not that Kyouko is a slouch either. Between the two of them, they demolish a solid three-quarters of the food.

Terrifying.

“Hey, Shiki,” Shirou says when Izaya has scarfed down the last waffle with ravenous gusto, “would you mind helping me with clean up? It goes so much faster with two sets of hands.”

“Of course,” Haruya says. It’s not like it’s a huge burden, he was planning on doing it anyway. It’s only polite to clean after someone cooks for you.

“Great, I’ll wash you dry.”

Izaya scampers off to ‘get dressed and stuff,’ and Kyouko trails after to verify the ‘and stuff’ doesn’t include any explosives.

It’s a worthy cause, to be sure, but it has the unfortunate side effect of leaving Haruya alone with a humming Shirou.

“Iwas thinking last night,” Haruya starts. “You never quite told me why you scooped me up off the street.”

“Didn’t I?”

“No,” Shiki insists. “You _implied._ And maybe those reasons are enough together. But there’s a dozen street punks out there running color gangs with yakuza ties. And I’m not sure having living relatives would stop you scooping them off the street.”

Shirou runs a pan under the water, hands it to Haruya to dry.

“All my employees are here cause they want to be,” Shirou says mildly, “even you, I do believe. Nothing stopped you from walking out the door last night.”

That’s not quite accurate. He has no idea where he is, no idea what Shirou might have done if he left.

But that’s not what he’s here to answer.

“Maybe so,” Haruya says, “but why me? Don’t tell me it was because you knew my father, you’d have never let me in the house if that was the reason.”

“That’s true enough,” Shirou says, handing over a spatula to dry. “You might not remember it, but this isn’t the first time we’ve crossed paths.”

Haruya casts a doubtful eye over him. “Pardon my bluntness, but you’re not exactly easy to forget.”

“Not me directly, a branch of mine. Tanaka Real Estate?”

“Ah.” Haruya remembers.

“See, wasn’t even trying to buy real estate in the area, just get some cameras set up. Bring some homeless into the network, but some punk seemed to have spread the rumor that we were in the business of ripping up poor communities to make mini-malls. My agents couldn’t go ten feet without getting spat on. Or worse. And all our cameras were ripped out almost as soon as they went up.” Shirou sounds more impressed than anything. Clearly that was the largest part of his job application.

“You haven’t exactly been clear with what you do either,” Haruya says. “You said ‘small business’ your tattoos say yakuza, and your home screams it. The yakuza don’t exactly have homeless in their network, but they do play the real estate game. What is it that you do?”

“So many questions for so early in the morning,” Shirou says, rolling his neck. “And so _blunt._ Didn’t expect that from you.”

“You made an offer of employment,” Haruya says, “I’m just trying to figure out what all that entails.”

“See, that’s the problem here. Can’t tell you all of what we do until you accept. But I can tell you,” Shirou hands over a plate, “that the Orihara-kai is a subsidiary of the Koide. You will be expected to take an oath and all. Might even have to get the tattoos.”

“So you _are_ yakuza?”

Shirou sighs. “Yes and no. Mostly yes, though. Eh, it’ll be easier to show you. Swing by the offices after your first day of school, yeah?”

Shirou shakes his hands into the sink before wandering off into the dark of the hall.

❖

There’sa chauffeur in the front seat.

Apparently, the main difference between chauffeurs and taxi drivers is that chauffeurs are better than you and won’t deign to talk to trash.

“So, how long have you worked for the Oriharas?”

Silence.

Alright then.

It’s not the same car that Shirou whisked him away in, but it still screams money to all and sundry. The Orihara’s _have_ to have something that looks more inconspicuous, than blends in with the surroundings.

Something less _yakuza._

He didn’t realize how far the Orihara _estate_ trulyis from where he lives. Lived. Or central Tokyo. It’s a while before the massive houses become smaller, before sprawling suburbia becomes apartments. Before wide city streets become small alleys with grungy walls.

The car rolls to a stop outside the apartment.

It’s never quiet on Shiki’s street. There’s too _much._ Too many humans, in too small of a space. But now it’s as close to dead quiet as he’s ever heard.

No one’s out on the street, but he can see some of the threadbare curtains twitch as he passes by.

There’s the slam of another car door, and the chauffeur steps out onto the sidewalk, retrieving something out of the trunk.

It’s clear what it is when he hands it to Haruya.

A single duffel bag.

Glad to see they have that much faith in him.

The chauffeur is leaning against the car with a cigarette, so Haruya mounts the rusty stairs. In the quiet, he can hear the way they creak and groan under his weight.

There’s a slip of paper stuck to his door, fluttering gently.

Black ink on cheap paper. The rent’s due. Odd, the landlady usually makes no qualms about coming up to visit, to chat with his mother and her—

Oh.

Guess she doesn’t just wanna deal with the dangerous son, eh? The door sticks when he unlocks it, and he has to give it a bit of shoulder to force it open.

And he stumbles into an empty room.

He’s been gone a day and his mother’s been gone longer, but he hasn’t had time to notice. There were the funeral arrangements and agencies to notify and paperwork to fill out and a grave to select and religious rites to organize and neighbors to fend off and food to make and things to clean clean clean.

But now.

Now, it’s just empty.

It’s not _large_ , but her absence sucks all the life out of the place. Now he can see the places that no amount of scrubbing could make clean, can smell the rot and dust her perfume usually covered.

Flipping the light on barely makes a difference, the apartment’s still musty and dead.

There are a few decorations he wants, though. And he realizes as he grabs them he’s never really thought of them as _his,_ they were always _hers._ A picture of them together when Haruya is young, smiling at the camera over a birthday cake, his mother tired but smiling. Another, Haruya a bit older, a little less of a smile from both of them.

And then it’s just him. School photos with stiff uniforms and a straight face, but lovingly framed anyway.

He grabs the first two photos, leaves the rest.

The next thing is his mother’s jewelry case, jade and precious stones glittering and well-cared for.

He never wondered why she had them when he was younger, and was used to them when he was older, but his mother was never frivolous with their money. And the gifts from her clients aren’t kept in this box, those are usually pawned off almost as soon as she gets them, once she’s trotted them out the requisite once or twice to satisfy her clients.

He takes the whole box, and it’s heavier than in looks. Solid wood. The floorboard it rested on snaps back into place with a groan as the weight is removed.

Odd. It’s heavy, but it’s not _that_ heavy.

And the apartment is cheap, but it’s not _that_ cheap.

Setting the jewelry box aside, Haruya peers at the board more closely. Pushes down on the center. Ah, it bends so easily because it’s not attached at either end. And because it’s really very cheap wood, no two ways around that.

He pries the wood up to reveal a shallow space, completely full of two document folders and a small photo album with a plain cover.

He flips open the cover just as the lights give a high whine and give up completely, plunging the apartment into a murky sort of darkness. He’ll have time to investigate later, when there’s not a risk that he’ll be abandoned if he lingers too long.

But looking around, there’s nothing else he really wants to keep. The appeal of the apartment was the other person in it, not the space or any of the objects. And there’s nothing left that the Orihara’s didn’t replace for him.

Going back down the steps, he can see curtains flutter out of the corner of his eye, can feel the weight of stares on his back. But none of the neighbors that he’s known for years, for most of his life, come out to say a word.

The chauffeur catches Haruya’s eye when he comes back down, “Are you ready to go?” he says, voice thick like his tongue is made of rubber.

Haruya takes one last look at the building with its twitching curtains and many eyes.

“Yes.”

❖

Izaya’sthere waiting and bouncing as soon as the car pulls into the garage.

“I wanted to go, too,” Izaya whines, hands flying every which way. “What’s in the bag?” he says even as he makes a grab for it.

“My things,” Shiki says as he heaves it up over a shoulder and away from grasping hands.

“But what _things?”_ Izaya says, “The things people choose to save from burning buildings tells a lot about them, you know.”

“It’s not burning,” Shiki says.

“Why not?” Izaya says, “Mama says you were supposed to go for closure.”

“You don’t have to burn things for closure.”

Izaya looks unimpressed.

But Haruya is saved as the driver rounds the car and Izaya turns to him, hands flying into odd, complex shapes.

And the driver responds in kind.

Well, shit.

“Tanigawa says he can take us to the park in about two hours,” Izaya reports back to Haruya, “might be faster to walk then. Also he says you’re a two-bit invading jackass bastard.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Alright, he didn’t he say the first part. Or the second. Whichever. You know he’s deaf, right?”

“I do now,” Haruya says, trying the door from the garage. It doesn’t budge even a little.

Izaya taps a small black panel to the side of the door and there’s a faint clunk before the door swings open. “You’re not scanned into the system yet, that’s why Mama sent me out here to get you.”

“It’s not that you’re absolutely _desperate_ to get to the park.”

“No,” Izaya agrees. “Well, maybe. Mama says I can’t do any more experiments in the house. Or on the ground. Or at school. Or anywhere there’s people for sixty meters.”

“Do parks meet that criteria?”

“Industrial parks do,” Izaya replies, in a tone that questions Shiki’s intelligence.

“Maybe in a little bit,” Shiki says, thinking into the duffel bag and the odd assortment of treasures he found under the floor

“Come _on,_ I’ve waited _forever,”_ Izaya whines. “Aren’t you supposed to take care of me? Aren’t you supposed to watch over me?”

“It’s not that we’re never going, just give me an hour, alright?”

“No,” Izaya says. “I’ve waited. I’m done waiting, let’s _go._ ”

“ _Patience_ ,” Shiki snaps. “There are some things I need to do before we go.”

Shiki realizes that his hand has curled tighter around the strap of the bag and that his teeth are clenching at the same time he catches Izaya’s expression. It’s not of fear, or uncertainty. It’s one of satisfaction, there and gone in an instant.

“Like what? Does it have to do with the bag?”

But it’s not good to get angrier, no matter what he wants. So he shoves the anger to the side, puts it behind a glass wall.

“Yes,” Shiki says, modulating his tone to something softer. He’s a nanny, now. He can handle one child, no matter how demonic he might be.

“I wanna see,” Izaya says, trailing him up the stairs.

“You can’t,” Shiki says. “It’s private.”

“Why?” Izaya says, “I already know all about your family.”

Shiki stops at the top of the stairs. “You what?”

“Yup,” Izaya says, weaving around to stand in front. “I know about your mom and your dad and how they met and everything, why can’t you just show me the bag?”

Izaya’s eyes snap up to Shiki’s face and he cocks his head to the side, considering. “Do _you_ know how your mom and dad met? I’ll trade you.”

Shiki finds his voice. “Trade me what?”

“I’ll tell you what I know, and you show me what’s in the bag. Fair, ne?”

“You know,” Shiki says, sliding around Izaya and into his room. “Most people would give that sort of information for free. It’s the kind of thing that friends freely tell each other.”

“Are we friends?” Izaya says, trailing him and plopping onto Shiki’s neatly-made bed.

“Sure,” Shiki says. That’s what you’re supposed to say to a child, right?

Izaya looks thoughtful. “Maybe a little. But I don’t think we’re really friends. We just know each other. Friends _trust_ each other.”

Apparently it’s not when the child might be smarter than you. But Izaya is right. “We can trust each other.”

“Is that how it works?” Izaya flops back onto his bed. “I don’t think it is. Not from what I’ve seen. Daddy’s supposed to trust his minions, but he dismissed all of them. I don’t think people trust just ‘cause they’re supposed to.”

“Then how do they?”

“I dunno,” Izaya says. “Have you read a lot of stories? I do. Sometimes people trust and it turns out wrong because they’re not supposed to. Sometimes they’re much better for it, but is that ‘cause people actually turn out that way? Or is it because we really want them to because it’s sediment.”

“Sentiment.”

Izaya gives him a dirty look but goes on. “Daddy says not to trust strangers, only family. Mama and Daddy don’t trust _anyone_ else, only each other.”

“They trust me,” Shiki says, pulling his chair from his desk to sit on. “They trust me to watch over you.” And probably vetted as well as they could. “Is that enough?”

“I dunno,” Izaya says. “Will you let me look in the bag?”

There’s that gleam again in Izaya’s eye.

“I dunno,” Shiki replies, “can _I_ trust _you?_ ”

Izaya fidgets on the bed. “Momma said we’re family now.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Izaya fidgets. “Will you tell me _everything?”_

This just _smells_ like a trap. But either way, Shiki says: “Of course.”

“Then I guess,” Izaya says. “As long as I can trust you.”

And with that, Izaya rips open the duffel bag, going straight for the photo album.

“Who’s this?” Izaya says, pulling photos out of the album at random.

“My mother.”

“Why don’t you still live with her? Did she not want you?”

“She’s dead.”

The words drop like they’re made of lead into the silence of the room.

And for a second, Haruya can’t breathe. His throat is too tight and his chest just won’t work properly.

It’s odd. He was the one to confirm that the body was his mother, to arrange the funeral. It’s been days, he’s changed his entire life around the fact that his mother is gone and won’t be coming back. He’s fully accepted the idea that she’s gone, hasn’t he?

Apparently not.

It takes him a moment to realize that at least half of the weight on his chest isn’t internal, it’s Izaya with his arms wrapped around him. “There, there,” Izaya says awkwardly, a small hand patting Haruya’s back tenuously.

Haruya woodenly wraps his arms back around Izaya. It’s not at all like when his mother used to embrace him, not even when he was older and she felt small and delicate and fragile in his arms.

“She’s very pretty,” Izaya says, squirming out of Haruya’s arms, holding her picture more delicately now.

“Thank you.”

“Let’s go to the park now,” Izaya says, tugging on his hands.

And Izaya sets the grass on fire and Haruya runs out of time to grieve.

❖

Kyoukois some sort of super-human that continues to work even as she struggles with morning sickness.

Monday he rolls out of bed and into a new school uniform to find Kyouko already up and snapping commands into a phone she holds in one hand and tapping at a laptop with another, taking breaks about every ten minutes to vomit into a bin next to the couch.

“Shiki, darling,” Kyouko says, peering up from her computer when Shiki walks into the living room. “Izaya’s not up yet, would you mind getting him?”

“Of course not,” Shiki says, spinning on his heel, hiking up the stairs.

Izaya’s room is across the hall from his, so he can be right there whenever Izaya so much as breathes funny.

He doesn’t know what his room used to be, certainly not a guest room— that’s far away from all the others, tucked on the first floor like something forgotten. But it doesn’t matter.

Haruya knocks lightly on the door, but everything is as silent as it was. The door swings in on silent hinges to reveal, well.

It’s not a typical eleven year old’s room. Not that he has much of a frame of reference, but he’s pretty sure they’re usually not tastefully decorated with vaguely foreign-looking prints and impeccably neat. The desk is organized with a near mathematical precision that he’s never seen outside of catalogues, the book shelf is the tidiest he’s ever seen. Haruya’s never been a slob, per se, but even his room never quite escaped the errant sock or small slip of paper falling on the floor like Izaya’s seems to.

And there, sprawled across the bed, is Izaya.

The position is so unnatural he’s sure that Izaya really did sleep that way, but equally as certain that Izaya’s feigning sleep.

Just because Izaya decided to ‘trust’ him doesn’t mean he hasn’t made a damn nuisance of himself at every opportunity.

He’s a child, Shiki reminds himself. Going through a period of stress. Any child would act out, even one as brilliant as Izaya.

It’s also possible that Izaya’s just a fucking asshole.

“It’s time to get up,” Haruya says, to absolutely no response. “You have school in two hours.”

Izaya continues to breathe deeply and evenly.

“Your mom said she was coming up—”

Izaya springs out of bed so fast Haruya barely sees him move. “What are you doing in here?” Izaya says, throwing open a drawer, “getting dressed isn’t something I need help with anymore.”

“Are you quite sure?” Haruya says, “because I saw your outfit yesterday.”

Izaya turns to frown at him. “There was nothing wrong with what I was wearing.”

“Of course,” Haruya says, heading down from the door.

Izaya’s frown deepens. “Well, I saw what you were wearing yesterday too, I’m not sure you should be critiquing.”

“Uh-huh,” Shiki calls over his shoulder.

Izaya comes clomping down the stairs a few moments later, uniform askew and hair in a desperate need of brushing. “What’s for breakfast?” he says, peering around as if he expects a plate of pancakes to be hiding in a corner.

“I dunno,” Shiki says, coming closer to finger comb Izaya’s hair into some sort of order and straighten his uniform. “What do you want?”

Breakfast is the most useless meal of the day, in Shiki’s opinion. But who knows what terrors Izaya could wreck in the morning while _hungry._

“Coffee,” Izaya says with certainty. “And curry chicken with rice.”

Not that Shiki’s an expert, but only one of those sounds like a breakfast food.

“He usually has cereal with yogurt on school days,” Kyouko tells Shiki as she heaves herself from the couch. “Cereal is in one of the cabinets.”

“But it’s _gross,”_ Izaya whines.

“Since when is it gross,” Kyouko says mildly. “It’s what you’ve eaten every morning for three months last semester. You’re the one who _insisted_.”

Izaya huffs a breath.

“If you don’t make a decision soon, you’ll be hungry on the way to school.”

In the end, Izaya leaves with a piece of untoasted bread dangling out of his mouth and a box of some colorful sugar under his arms for a ‘snack on the way.’

“I’ve never walked to school before,” Izaya says by way of explanation, shoveling handfuls of neon-colored sugar flakes in his mouth. “Probably takes a lot of energy.”

“You haven’t?” Shiki says, not terribly surprised.

“No, usually Tanigawa drives me when he takes Daddy to work.”

“Then why did you insist on taking the trains?” The commute time to Izaya’s school is roughly forty-five minutes, according to the internet timetables. A little bit more than twice the time than it would take to drive.

He found that out from the maps app on his phone. He’s beginning to see why so many people consider them essential, it’s quickly becoming a staple of his beyond simply reaching out to his employers.

“I like the trains,” Izaya says, crunching on his cereal as they wait for the bus. “I think it’s interesting to see all sorts of different people from all walks of life in one place, what they do when they think no one is watching.”

“I don’t think _anyone_ thinks they’re alone.”

“I don’t think so either,” Izaya agrees. “Just, they forget that there are people around them after a while. Start acting a little less self-consciously. It’s interesting.”

Shiki, personally, wouldn’t mind a faster commute. But hey, there’s nothing wrong with trains either. They’re pretty damn reliable, if full of people.

But Izaya is fascinated with the whole process, wanting to stare out the filthy windows into nothing, at the other passengers. He’s regarding the whole thing with a sense of wonder. And Shiki can understand why, it’s hard to picture Kyouko or Shirou in a train car, the sheer force of either of their personalities being shoved into a small space would be suffocating, even more so than the usual sardine-packed feel of the Tokyo train system.

Maybe that’s what he’s here for, why he was chosen out what he’s sure must have been hundreds of candidates to care for their precious baby boy. He can move among the masses like Izaya wants, but making sure he’s not completely unprotected. A middle ground between potentially choking personalities. And as he watches Izaya’s gaze hungrily devour each little detail about their fellow passengers, he think that might have been the right decision.

❖

Hisnew high school is very different than his last.

For one, the teachers seem to _care_ about the students that walk through their doors.

“Your placement exam scores were very high,” teacher in front of him says, “but I’m concerned about you coming in so late in the semester, it may be very difficult for you to catch up.”

Haruya stiffens, “I assure you I can—”

“We’re sure you can,” the teacher says, smiling not unkindly. “But here’s a card for a tutor just in case. And I’ve had your teachers assemble some review material from their classes, you can find their emails on this sheet here, be sure to contact them if you have any questions.”

“Oh, of—”

“Additionally, we have some school policies. I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” the teacher’s eyes are judging, but not negatively, “but I have to remind you anyway. It’s strictly prohibited to wear gang apparel or mark oneself out as a member of any gang. Violence on campus will result in an immediate expulsion.”

“I’m sure that won’t be an issue.”

“No,” the teacher agrees. “Additionally, while we offer both a summer and winter uniform, either one is acceptable throughout the school year.” This is said with a significant look. Haruya almost bristles, he’s not some _lowlife_ that crawled into this school--

But then he realizes. The teacher already knows his affiliations. This school is probably crawling with sons and daughters of those with similar _affiliations,_ here to schmooze with the upper crust and establish connections that will further the interests of the family.

“I see,” Haruya says instead, relaxing his shoulders and back.

Truth be told, the classes here are _very_ different than what he’s used to.

He opens his math textbook to see accounting problems, statistics on the market. His psychology class zeros in on social factors, persuasion, and what makes people and things more likable. Science class gives him hands on experience handling volatile chemicals his last school didn’t even think of having anywhere near delinquent hands, let alone handing them off for teenagers to play with.

He’s no slouch, but his head is almost spinning with the sheer influx of new information, fingers almost tingling with the need to grasp on to something real and new.

He’s not going to go to university, he already knew that, but he didn’t expect to be sent to a training ground either.

The classes aren’t the only thing that’s different about his new school. The students that populate the campus are different than the ones at his last. And it takes him a while to put his finger on it.

There’s no desperation. Even those that hole up in the library to pour over notes don’t have that frantic edge, getting into the top university isn’t the last and final hope for a better life here, it’s simply a goal to be worked for, a certainty for some.

It’s a completely different atmosphere, one he doesn’t quite bleed seamlessly into, if the long looks and stares are anything to go by.

“Hi,” a girl says, twirling a lock of hair around a finger. “I noticed that you’re new here, and I uh. I know it can be rough, so I wanted to let you know that you can totally ask me for help if you need it. Not saying that you do, _of course,_ but if you _do—”_

But not being subsumed isn’t always a bad thing. “I’ll let you know,” Shiki says, extending a hand. “I’m Shiki Haruya.”

“Misoko,” she says, blushing as Shiki smiles slowly.

He’ll like this school, he’s sure.

❖

PickingIzaya _up_ from school is nothing like dropping him off.

Izaya sits on the front steps of the school, chin in his hands as he watches his classmates play. It’s not a wistful sort of expression, or even a blank one. It manages to convey a sense of contentment without tripping any sort of alarm bells.

But his eyes.

His eyes are roving for details even as they glaze with boredom. The little boy tugging on the girl’s pigtails, the parents and the nannies as they parade about to claim their children.

But as soon as Izaya’s eyes land on Shiki, they light up, and that doesn’t seem false in the slightest.

Izaya tucks his hand into Shiki’s as soon as he gets close enough. “It took you long enough,” Izaya says brightly, just loud enough for Shiki to hear.

“I had to pick up homework I’ve missed,” Shiki says by way of explanation, “though I’m honestly surprised to see you still here.”

“I thought about leaving,” Izaya confides, voice gaining volume as they leave the front gates, “but we’re supposed to go to the office today.”

“We’re?” Shiki repeats. “ _I’m_ supposed to go, you’re supposed to go home.”

“Aww,” Izaya says, using Shiki’s hand as a point to swoop a twirl around the sidewalk. “But Daddy _loves_ it when I visit the office. He didn’t say I couldn’t come, did he?”

“No, but your mother—”

“She didn’t say I couldn’t go, either,” Izaya says, with a tone of finality. “She just said to come home after school. It’s still _after school_ after we go to the office.”

Funny how life works. In school he’s interesting and dangerous.

Here, he’s a child’s plaything.

“Fine, you can come,” Shiki says, pretending this had any other outcome.

“Good choice. Hey, wanna hear what I did at school today?”

“What did you do at school today?”

“Well, I got the best score on my math test out of the entire class, but that’s not that odd.”

“It’s still impressive.”

Izaya preens, “isn’t it?”

“Aren’t you supposed to at least pretend to be humble?” Shiki rebukes lightly.

“Why?” Izaya says, “I’m much smarter than them. They know it, _I_ know it. It’s not their fault, it’s just the way it is.”

“Sure,” Shiki says, “but people like it when others are humble.”

“People are weird,” Izaya says. “Guess what else happened?”

“What?”

Izaya has the astounding ability to chatter for long periods of time if you let him. It’s not boring either. It’s a stream of conscious, but it’s a fascinating thought process.

“Isn’t it weird that creation myths all have a lot of recurring. Um.”

“Images? Themes?”

“Yeah, themes. Well, I think.”

“You think?”

Izaya, for the first time since they started on their way, looks put out. “I’m having trouble reading one of them.”

“I’m sure—”

“Oh, but you could read it to me!” Izaya says, perking right back up. “Your English is maybe a little better than mine, you could teach me!”

 _Maybe?_ He hadn’t dominated his class tests because he had a pretty face.

“English? What are you reading in English?”

“ _The Poetic Edda_ ,” Izaya says, impatiently waiting for Shiki’s slower and more inferior intellect to catch up.

“Ah,” Shiki says, a small part of his pride unwilling to tell a child he has no idea what that is. It dies quietly with no fanfare to mourn its passing. “What’s that?”

“It’s _the_ authority on Norse mythology,” Izaya says, exasperated.

“What’s wrong with the Japanese version of the text?” Shiki says as they get closer to a non-descript office building. The only thing that marks it different than its neighbors is the conspicuous lack of signage anywhere, but Izaya walks in like he owns the place.

Probably does.

“I don’t wanna read a translated _translation,”_ Izaya whines, “do you know how much meaning is lost each time something is translated?”

“Ah, that’s true.”

There’s a suited man sitting behind the desk at the front, but Izaya breezes past with Shiki in tow, leading him further down till they hit a bank of elevators. What amazing security they have in place. Or maybe this is a front for the amazing security they really do have. Or maybe they don’t, but the shoddy security makes you think they have something powerful hidden up their sleeve so you behave. Who knows with Shirou.

There’s a little plaque next to one of the buttons in the elevator that reads: _Orihara-kai_ in a no-nonsense font.

But Izaya ignores it entirely and starts hitting buttons seemingly at random, before the elevator jolts and starts to descend.

Ah, apparently somebody forgot to give him the passcode.

“The guest offices are upstairs,” Izaya says, smirking at Shiki. “I’m sure you would have found someone that knew about the real office. Eventually.”

Because of course the eleven-year-old knows about the deep dark underworld secrets, why wouldn’t he?

The elevator finally comes to a stop at a floor not even listed on the buttons. Izaya hurls himself out of the elevator, “ _Daddy!”_

 _“Izaya!”_ comes the equally enthusiastic response, as Shiki watches Izaya being swept off his feet into the arms of Shirou. “Did you have a good day at school?”

“Yeah!”

“Set any fires?”

“Nope.”

“Well, that’s okay. There’s always tomorrow.”

Shirou scoots Izaya over to his hip. “And Shiki. This is our office.”

Shiki peers around, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone else around. “It’s very nice.” And it is. In a black-and-white macho leather sort of way.

Shirou catches him looking. “Ah, don’t worry. I’m in the middle of switching business models at the moment, there will be more around soon. Maybe.”

“Show him the room,” Izaya says impatiently.

“Oh, yes. Of course.” Shirou walks off and Shiki gathers that he’s supposed to follow. “So like I said, we are a yakuza family. Technically, we are under one of the other families and all that nonsense. We pay our dues and attend meetings. But-- Izaya, could you point for me, I have my hands full.” Izaya dutifully extends an arm to point at Shiki. “ _But_ , that doesn’t mean we’re confined to the usual yakuza business model.”

Shirou uses his hip to bump a door open before swinging inside. “This is the core of our business.”

Shiki trails in slowly. It’s something straight out of a comic book. It’s beyond believing. There are dozens of screens, each rotating between several scenes. Some are familiar, there’s a shot of a huge shopping mall Shiki’s visited once or twice before the screen changes to a broad view of Parliament, and is that even legal? No, that doesn’t matter.

On that screen, it’s an intimate view of an office. A bar. An alleyway. So much information pouring in from every direction it makes his head spin, he doesn’t even know where to begin to look.

“And this isn’t all,” Shirou says. “We have, let’s call them agents, in every company, every family, every syndicate. We have watchers and informers on our payroll. We have access to phone records and credit card receipts. If I wanted, I could have the exact 500 yen bill Jotaro used to pay for his lunch in my hand in the next half hour.”

“So you’re an information broker?”

Izaya titters as Shirou smiles. “Sure, but that’s not all we do. We’re more— what’s that word you used, ‘Zaya?”

“Facilitators,” Izaya says.

“That’s it, _facilitators_. We can fulfill your staffing needs, whatever they may be. Need a neutral third party to oversee your negotiations? We can do that too. Whatever you need, we can get it. And we do it with the utmost secrecy and discretion.”

Shiki continues to stare at the bank of monitors, at the thousands of eyes where no eyes should be. “It’s amazing, sir.”

“It’s nothing,” Shirou says, but Shiki can tell he’s pleased. “I think it’d be fair for you to come every Tuesday after school, wouldn’t you say?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Can I come too?” Izaya says, turning his best puppy dog eyes up onto Shirou.

Shirou melts like putty in Izaya’s hand. No, that would imply that Izaya had to exert any force to have Shirou tumbling to his will.

“Of course, tiger,” Shirou coos. “Of course. We’ll have Shiki on his way to becoming a true yakuza in no time, won’t we?”

❖

Wintercomes so quickly it’s a slap in the face to realize it’s upon him.

“Shiki,” Izaya says, coming into his room and throwing himself onto the bed. “Read to me.”

“Give me a minute, I have to finish this homework.”

Izaya groans. “Why do you care about your grades so much, you already have a job lined up, yeah?”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Shiki replies, tapping his pencil as he stares at the numbers again. He’s no slouch, but somewhere between imaginary numbers and infinity they lost him along with any practical application and grasp on reality. He’ll leave it for later, maybe ask Misoko for some help, she seemed perfectly willing.

He pulls his chemistry closer. This is closer to whathe’d been taught back in his old school. Suppose there’s not really that much you can specialize with high school Chemistry.

There’s a rustle before Izaya comes over and squirms onto his lap, doing an excellent job of obscuring Shiki’s view of his own homework. But a few adjustments and he’s looking over Izaya’s shoulder.

“What’s this graph?” Izaya says, pointing.

“Activation energy.”

“What’s that?”

“How much energy is needed to start a reaction.”

Shiki doesn’t need to see Izaya’s face to know his brow is crumpled, trying to puzzle out what means without having to ask and lose face. It must be terribly embarrassing to not know everything.

“See, sometimes reactions don't just happen. Like when you mix baking soda and vinegar together. Or whatever those chemicals in the park were. Sometimes it's more like a match. Matches don't just catch on fire, you have to strike them against the side of the box. Sometimes you have to put energy in to get the reaction going.”

“I see,” Izaya says. The awful part is he probably does. “So how much longer should this take you?”

“Not long.”

“Great. Then you can read to me now and finish this before you go to bed, ne?”

Arguing with Izaya is always a losing battle, and not because Izaya could probably have Shiki’s fingers cut off if he felt the whim. Shiki would pretend to be surprised, but he has met the parents and it would be a waste of energy.

“Alright, up.”

Izaya leaps to his feet, rushing out of the room. There's a thump, but Izaya comes rushing back looking largely unharmed, so Shiki doesn’t worry about it.

Much.

The _Poetic Edda_ isn’t as long as you would think, not as complicated as you would think. Not that it doesn’t have Shiki up late at night, practicing his pronunciation and looking up words ahead of time.

He’s top in his class with English now, thank you very much.

Izaya pounces on his bed, patting the empty space beside him like an invitation. “Come ooooon, Shiki. I’ve been _so_ patient.”

Maybe he even has, in his own world.

Shiki obliges without much fuss though, settling against the headboard. Izaya wiggles under an arm, settling against his chest so he can see the book too.

“Where did we leave off?” Shiki says, flipping through the pages.

“Right there,” Izaya says with that uncanny accuracy he always has, managing to pinpoint the last word he heard without fail.

“ _The Fenris−wolf advances with wide open mouth; the upper jaw reaches to heaven and the lower jaw is on the earth. He would open it still wider had he room. Fire flashes from his eyes and nostrils.”_

Izaya sits enthralled against his chest, mouthing every word along with him, eyes tracking.

But it’s not long before he starts to shift, ever so slightly, letting Shiki’s chest take more and more of his weight.

“ _With one hand Vidar seizes the upper jaw of the wolf, and thus rends asunder his mouth. Thus the wolf perishes,”_ Shiki finishes, and looks down to see what he already knows to be true.

Izaya sleeps peacefully against his chest, eyelashes fluttering ever-so-slightly, breath deep and even.

Shiki carefully slides out from under him, leaning him gently against the pillows. With luck, he’ll wake up in an hour or two and wander off to his own bed. If not, then Shiki will chance the horrors of waking up with an Izaya hat. But for now, the Chemistry homework won’t finish itself.

❖

Onemoment, Izaya’s twirling around the sidewalk.

“Hey, hey, did you know that flower’s meaning sometimes have to do with their bioclem. Biochel. Biochemical properties,” Izaya says, pretending he didn’t have to stutter out a word about three years above his reading level.

“Oh? Like what?”

“Like, for instance,” Izaya says, wandering a little further down the sidewalk to investigate a vine hanging over a wall, “foxglove is—”

It happens in flashes. A black car stops at the sidewalk in a screech of tires and the smell of burnt rubber, a door is shoved open.

Shiki moves, but Izaya is too far and the kidnappers are too close and too fast and Shiki gets close enough to the car that he can bang ineffectively at the window as it pulls away.

No.

The car rounds a corner.

No no nonono _no_.

His heartbeat drowns out everything else as he shrugs off his backpack and dashes across the street, trying to follow. But a sharp blare of a horn distract him halfway across the road, and the car is nowhere in sight by the time he makes it to the corner.

Damn it damn it _damn it._

No, breathe. This is no time to be losing it, Izaya needs him. Izaya is in a strange car with people who could do anything to him. Who knows what they grabbed him for, maybe they know the Orihara-kai is yakuza, maybe they know that they really do and are out for revenge and are slicing off body parts at this moment. Maybe they snatched the pretty kid off the side of the road to sell to the highest bidder to—

No _._

This isn’t helping. Getting emotional isn’t helping.

Shiki breathes in, takes his emotions and puts them in a corner, then slams a steel door over them for good measure. Adds a few mental locks.

And he thinks.

The first thing he does is go back to his backpack, slinging it over his shoulders. The second thing he does is pull out his phone. The Orihara network is large and there are many black cars. But only one on this street at that time.

The system tracks the car through the cameras it’s passed, showing the car making a beeline to one of the warehouse districts spotted around Tokyo. It’s really such a clever system, and Shiki might be worried about the easy accessibility of government data if it wasn’t so useful.

His first thought is to take the train there, but that’s not fast enough. Who knows what might happen to Izaya while some pregnant lady with a stroller takes two hours to navigate out of the train? That leaves a taxi. But he’ll have to get to one of the main roads first, taxis don’t choose idyllic lanes to hunt for passengers.

He keeps an eye on the car as he walks to the main road. It’s heading true, straight to the warehouses. Everyone seems to have a warehouse. He’d be shocked if the Orihara’s didn’t, though he’s never looked into it personally, there’s so many other holdings to keep track of.

God, but the things they could be doing to Izaya in the car—

Are irrelevant right now.

He straightens his shoulders and hardens his face, trying to attract a taxi despite his school uniform and the lack of money it implies. And it works, a taxi come screeching to his side within moments.

“Where to?”

Shiki rattles off an office building near the warehouse area he thinks they’re heading. No need to announce his presence with the sound of a car, he’s only one man. The best way to go about this is stealth.

Or is it?

The Orihara-kai has vast resources at its disposal, and its heir is kidnapped, he’d be an idiot not to call.

The Orihara-kai has vast resources at its disposal, and _he let its heir be kidnapped,_ he’d be a _fucking idiot_ to call. Shirou would skin his ass and hang it over the mantle. Maybe turn it into a rug for Izaya to frolic over.

Hell.

He sends a quick text to Kyouko, _Izaya grabbed by men in car, license plate 8KLO392, appears to be heading towards the warehouse district off the red line. Currently on route._

His phone buzzes in his hand in seconds. The time it takes for him to unlock his phone and read the text is all the time it takes for his stomach to crawl up to his throat to make a new home. _We know. Pay your cab driver in cash. Do not ask for the receipt._

Well, that’s not particularly helpful.

But he does as his phone instructs, probably paying far too much in his haste to get out of the car. Probably not for the best, it makes him more memorable, the high schooler paying too much with big bills. It’s even worse when he notices that the office building he chose is actually a ‘love hotel.’ But it’s too late now. He’ll be more careful in the future.

He checks his phone again. The car definitely stopped somewhere around here, but there’s no further messages from Kyouko either.

Maybe she’s busy summoning the crack team of ninjas, he doesn’t know, there wasn’t exactly a handbook that came with the job. Or even a brief warning that _maybe_ his charge would be the target of kidnappings.

But hell, that’s on him. He really should have known. Young heir of a powerful yakuza family? Prime target. He should have been more careful.

He _will_ be more careful.

It’s easier to slip into the warehouse district than he would like, given Izaya’s proclivities to wander, but it’s in his favor now. And it isn’t exactly deserted, but it’s large enough that it might as well be. No one pays him any mind as he carefully navigates, around buildings and through narrow alleys in between warehouses, cursing every time he makes a wrong turn and has to double back on himself. There were clearly waves of construction, each one making it more labyrinthic than the last. And it’s not like the Orihara database layers over with his location too.

Maybe he’ll talk to Shirou about that.

But at last, he finds the one he’s looking for, the car exactly where the security cameras say it should be. There’s a man leaning against the car, puffing on a cigarette, thumbing his phone.

A guard? An unfortunate passerby? Who’s to say.

It’s a car, couldn’t have held that many people. But there could have been more at the warehouse. His only real option is stealth.

He checks his phone again, no new messages.

Well.

Every minute that passes is another minute that Izaya could be hurt.

And if Izaya’s hurt, he’s dead no matter who kills him, Shirou will mount his head on the goddamn wall.

Might as well go for it.

There’s not really anything that can be used as a weapon, no convenient plank or pipe. Until he remembers his backpack. Shiki slides it off quietly, carefully selecting his Chemistry book and hefting it. It’s not the best, but it’ll do.

The roads between the warehouses aren’t large, but they’re big enough that it’s a lot of open ground between where Shiki crouches and where the guard idles, taking another puff from his cigarette.

Well, it’s now or never. Shiki walks out from his hiding place, doesn’t bother to run, doesn’t bother with any pretense of stealth, just lets a natural air of confidence carry him up to his target. Shiki’s maybe three feet away when the man looks up from his phone, just in time for Shiki to raise his textbook above his head and bring it down with all the force he can muster.

The man drops like a sack of potatoes, but thankfully quietly enough to not arouse any suspicion.

Easy. Almost too easy. But he’s not in a position to be looking gift horse in the mouth.

So he decides to take more. A brisk check reveals only a pocketknife, the blade a measly four inches. He takes it anyway, four inches of metal is still an uncomfortable few inches to have embedded in something soft and squishy.

He does find a baseball bat in the trunk of the car, though. Along with cleats and a jersey from what looks like a club team. More importantly, he doesn’t find any blood or obvious traces of violence in the backseat of the car. No little fingers or teeth littering the back seat.

So that’s good news.

The bad news is that his stealth mission ends here. The warehouse has no windows to peer through and only one door. It’s not even particularly large, as far as warehouses go. More of a glorified, extra-large shack.

Shiki tests the swing of the baseball bat.

There are worse ways to die.

And with that, he rips open the door to the warehouse.

The first one he takes completely by surprise, a solid swing to the head and he’s down for the count, crumpling to the ground.

The next is a bit warier, had time to pull a knife out. But the fact is that Shiki’s bat is longer than a knife and Shiki isn’t afraid of taking a few inches of metal when faced with the prospect of what Shirou might do.

The standoff ends when the goon lunges forward and Shiki’s bat makes a mighty crack against his attacker’s ribcage, sending him to the ground. If Shiki were chivalrous, he’d leave it at that.

Good thing he’s not.

A swift blow to the head and he stops moving. Either through death or unconsciousness, Shiki finds he doesn’t care.

And then no one comes at him. In the center of the gloried shack, illuminated by the harsh electric likes, is Izaya.

And behind Izaya is the coward that’s holding a knife to his throat.

“Don’t come any closer,” the man rasps. “Put down the bat.”

Shiki meets Izaya’s eyes, looking for fear.

He doesn’t find any. In fact, Izaya looks almost _bored,_ raising an eyebrow when Shiki doesn’t move.

Shiki sets the bat down, Izaya’s captor tracking him with his eyes, watching as Shiki slowly set his bat down and stand back up.

It’s because Shiki’s so on edge that he see Izaya move. One of his hands comes up to the arm at his throat, the other hits his captor’s crotch with unerring precision.

Izaya runs over to Shiki, his captor following hot on his heels. The bat’s too far to pick up and stand up with in time.

The knife.

Shiki has the tiny pocket blade out in time for Izaya’s captor to run into it, impaling his stomach on metal, a shocked _oof_ escaping his mouth.

Distantly, he hears something metal clatter to the ground, but he ignores it favor of bringing a fist up to deliver a blow to the head, his knuckles protesting the blunt shock of hitting bone with any degree of actual force.

But it leaves the last kidnapper on the ground, and Shiki can’t find he cares overmuch, when he can scoop Izaya up into his arms.

“I’m _fine,”_ Izaya says grumpily, but submits to Shiki patting him down with a decent amount of good grace and even hugs him back when Shiki roughly pulls him in.

Izaya’s maybe slightly too big to be carried and Shiki a touch not strong enough, but Shiki finds he doesn’t care, keeping Izaya on his hip anyway as he makes his way to the front door of the warehouse.

“My backpack,” Izaya says.

“What?”

“My backpack,” Izaya repeats. “It’s still on the floor. I’ve already done the homework and would hate to waste time redoing it.”

So with Izaya’s backpack over one shoulder and Izaya clinging to the other for balance, Shiki kicks open the warehouse door.

And walks into a circle of very dangerous looking guns.

“Daddy!” Izaya calls, squirming out of Shiki’s arms and ducking past the line of armed crack squad into Shirou’s arms.

“Izaya!” Shirou says, scooping his son up. “You alright, tiger?”

“Yeah,” Izaya says. “I’m a bit hungry though.”

Shirou laughs. “That’s an easy fix.”

Shiki tries to walk over, but the guns make an ominous click. Shirou looks over, seeming to just notice that Shiki’s here.

“Hello, Shiki,” Shirou greets. “Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.”

Izaya makes an irritated noise. “He didn’t do it. Can we go have dinner now? I’m _starving._ ”

Shirou looks down, “hm.”

“No, really. He charged in like an idiot,” Izaya says. “With a baseball bat. I think one of them might be dead.” Izaya looks unnecessarily pleased with the idea, like routine murder on his behalf is the highest form of compliment anyone could pay him.

“Oh, alright, stand down,” Shirou says, without much fuss. “You know the drill.”

The masked crack team hustle off with a practiced sort of efficiency, some retrieving equipment from a van cheerfully marked: _Super Suds Laundry Service._ Some disappearing into the warehouse itself. Shirou and Izaya walk towards Shirou’s black car idling nearby.

“Well?” Izaya calls. “You coming? We’re getting sushi.”

“I never said we’re getting sushi,” Shirou says, “how’d you know?”

“We _always_ get sushi after kidnappings,” Izaya says, hopping in the back of the car.

“Maybe after we get Shiki patched up, tiger,” Shirou says. “Your mother gets so picky about immediate medical attention.”

Now that he mentions it, Shiki’s side does hurt a –

Oh.

That. That looks bad.

Shirou indicates with a broad sweep of his arm that Shiki should climb in too. Shiki does, and Izaya immediately snuggles under his arm without breaking his continuous babbling about the merits of eating tuna every day, don’t you know it’s healthy? Not seeming to mind the blood in the slightest.

❖

He’dlike to say he has no idea how he ended up in this position, but that would be a bold-faced lie.

It always starts with Shirou and “ _Shiki, there’s something I need you to do for me.”_

In addition, ends with him in jeans and a hoodie in some back alley in a shady part of Tokyo, leaning against a wall that’s a strong contender for starting the next plague, waiting for a drug dealer that’s _supposed_ to control this area.

But his phone says that he was supposed to be here an hour ago and Shiki’s on the last few cigarettes and he’s considering just leaving.

If it was anyone but Shirou, he would have left forty-five minutes ago.

But the minutes tick closer to one a.m. And he still has to take Izaya to school the next morning. Today. In six hours.

Whatever.

The butt crunches under his heel and he pushes off the wall. Obviously, the guy isn’t coming and it isn't the sort of place one wants to be caught alone.

Especially not with the few grams of good old Columbian snow hidden in his hoodie.

Sure, he’s got a pocket knife in his jeans pocket, but he’s never been particularly _good_ with it, not even when he was the leader of that damn small time outfit.

Was that really only a few months ago? Wonder what they think happened to him. If they think he left for bigger pastures in the yakuza or ended up in prison. Maybe they think he followed his mom into the afterlife.

Whatever.

He’ll have to get out of this area of town if he even wants the hope of snagging a taxi, the trains and buses closed an hour ago and there’s no way getting picked up in a sleek, black car wouldn’t be shady and noticed. Ah, he’ll still have to walk that half-hour from where the reasonably-priced housing ends to the Orihara fortress, but that’s still far less than the three hours it would take to hoof it all the way from here.

He’s almost to the main road when a sharp, “Hey!” rings out through the night.

Fuck.

Everything in him says _run,_ but he stomps down on that urge. It’s not like it used to be. Getting caught won’t be the minor inconvenience it used to be, it would land him in the slammer.

And god help him if Shirou decides if that’s where he’s the most useful.

“Can I help you, officer?” Shiki says instead, stopping and turning to see a uniformed man walking swiftly towards him.

“Perhaps,” the officer says. “We’ve gotten reports of suspicious activity in this area, would you happen to know anything about that? Anything about drugs in this area?”

“Can’t help you,” Shiki says smoothly.

“Is that so?” the officer says. “Because we received a tip-off about a ‘suspicious figure’ standing in this alley about fifteen minutes ago. Said they had been here for quite a while. You know anything about that?”

Well, hell.

“I haven’t seen anyone,” Shiki says, as calmly as he can.

“Uh-huh. Do you mind showing me what’s in your pockets, son?” the officer says in a dangerously reasonable tone. “You don’t have to, of course. But if you don’t, I _will_ have to take you down to the station.”

“Oh, of course.”

Shit. Then something occurs to him. It could make everything so much worse.

It could end this before it even starts.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the money he carries now.

And these days, it’s quite a bit. Izaya has never wanted for anything, and he’s not gonna start now. And money will never be an obstacle.

So it’s a hefty wad that Shiki pulls out his pocket. It’s enough that the cop doesn’t even have to seriously think about it before tucking it into his own pocket. “Ah, my mistake, I’ll keep looking. Have a good night.”

Shiki turns, and out of the corner of his eye, sees someone leaning against the wall he was not ten minutes ago. It’s another cop, probably the other’s partner. But he doesn’t stop him from leaving, so Shiki finds he doesn’t really care.

It’s a long walk home. Best to start now.

It’s so late it’s early by the time he lets himself into the house, keying in past all the locks and toeing off his shoes in the hallway. It’s partly his mother’s influence and partly his own disgust at the possibility of tracking in filth.

The stealth is just an added bonus.

But as he’s heading toward the stairs with the intent to collapse face first into his pillows for the few precious moments of sleep he can steal, he notices a light on in the kitchen. But it’s far too early for the Orihara’s support staff to be in. Not that he thinks it’s a burglar, but it somehow seems polite to stop in and see who’s sharing his fate.

It’s Shirou and Izaya.

Izaya’s curled on Shirou’s lap with a glass of water clutched in small hands, back curled so he can better fit under Shirou’s chin.

For Shirou’s part, he’s rubbing soothing lines up and down Izaya’s back, muttering gentle nothings.

Crap. A nightmare.

And he _wasn’t there._

Izaya turns dry eyes at him but tucks them back into Shirou’s neck just as quickly. Izaya never cries. Not once in all the times he’s climbed into Shiki’s bed, curling in search of comfort. It _has_ to be the kidnappings, Shiki’s sure. Never once before did Izaya climb into his bed.

“I’m back,” Shiki says, the words falling lamely into the space between them.

“Welcome back,” Shirou says, levelly. “How’d it go?”

Horribly. He’s still got freaking cocaine in his hoodie and he never met the contact. He _failed._

“It could have gone better,” Shiki says, flicking eyes down to Izaya. Shirou raises an eyebrow. Of course, what was he thinking? Izaya’s never excluded. “The contact never showed up but the police did.”

Izaya looks at him again, keeping his gave steady this time. “What happened?”

“I bribed them,” Shiki says.

“Nice,” Shirou says, satisfaction evident. “Did you get a name? Like to keep records of that sort of expense.”

“No, but he’s bald, maybe a little taller than me. Thin. I’ll look him up in the database.”

“Eh, no rush,” Shirou assures him. “What’cha do with the package?”

Oh. Apparently Izaya isn’t allowed to know _everything._ Can’t have him getting his hands on cocaine, that would be _catastrophic._ “I still have it.”

“Flush it,” Shirou instructs. “Preferably before you come in next time, we don’t want that sort of shit in the house.”

“Understood, sir.”

Izaya peers curiously between them, wiggling out of Shirou’s lap. “I’m going to bed now,” he announces, sticking a hand up for Shiki to take.

“Alright, night, tiger.”

“Night, Daddy.”

They’re barely out of the kitchen when Izaya says, “you said you’d tell me _everything.”_

Shit. It begins. “I know. I apologize.”

“You weren’t _there.”_

“I know. I’m sorry, I made a mistake. I’ll tell you next time. It won’t happen again.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Izaya looks satisfied with his answer, trailing Shiki into his room. “So, what was the package?”

Shit.

❖

Misokomeets him in the public library, in the back where a few self-help and reference books live lonely lives with the dust bunnies and far away from where Izaya is solidly engrossed in the mythology section.

“Thanks for meeting me here,” Shiki says with a smile. “You’re really a life saver.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Misoko says, blushing and taking a seat. “So you’re having trouble with calculus? What parts?”

Shiki brings out his textbook, opening to the first page. “Here on, to be honest.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not so bad,” Misoko says. “How about you try some of the homework problems, and I’ll watch to see where you have trouble?”

“Ah, right. Sounds like a good idea.”

He manages to get all the way through the first problem and half way through the second when she stops him. “Ah, here,” she says. “I think your problem is here, that’s not what that concept means,” she grabs his pencil, hand lingering just a second too long. “Here, this is how you—”

Her face is so close to his, it’s so easy to turn his head and kiss her. She tastes like toothpaste and doesn’t protest to being fucked on a table in the back of a library.

❖

Hewatches Izaya walks into school. It’s fascinating, the change that can come over him sometimes. The fire hides itself, takes a backseat to a facade of calm patience that Shiki didn’t even know Izaya was capable of.

Gone is the hellion he’s used to, replaced by a model student. Charming, bright, calm.

Fascinating.

It’s not far to the high school from here. Not far from a middle school either. It’s easy to see the natural progression that will be made as privileged kids get shuffled from one excellent school (butnot with _too_ much pressure) in a nice neighborhood (but not _too_ nice, got to have some room for controlled rebellions) to the next.

He can see the advantage of putting Izaya here. Here he can be one of Them, the elites. He can move in circles that would otherwise be closed off, these schools the keys to get him in with the future heirs of businesses and banks and arms dealers.

There are drawbacks, too. He’d be shocked if Izaya let himself be shuffled off to the next school in the chain without protest.

He’s at about the midway point between his school and Izaya’s when he catches sight of the car. It stands out as soon as it rounds the corner, speaking of luxury and excess and comfort. Somehow, he’s not shocked when it stops next to him.

But his throat closes when the window rolls down to reveal the smiling face of Orihara Shirou.

“Shiki, my boy,” Shirou croons, shoving the door open. “Get in. We have some business to attend.”

Shiki slides in, the car peeling away from the sidewalk before he even has the door completely shut.

“The Koide family will be calling a family-wide meeting in about two hours,” Shirou says. “I need a lieutenant by my side to avoid looking like some sort of two-bit.”

“Ah,” Shiki says, trying to remember why the Koide family would be relevant. Besides a little niggling feeling, he’s coming up blank.

“It’s in the boonies,” Shirou says, rolling his eyes. “At the estate. Because no one has anything better to do with their time but scurry over when he snaps his fingers, of course. But don’t worry, you’ll still be back in time to pick Izaya up from school. ”

Because Izaya’s schedule is always more important than whatever yakuza business could be happening.

But the car isn’t heading out onto the highway, instead it’s winding deeper into the city.

“It’s always such a _pain,”_ Shirou’s saying. “Yohiro with his petty little power moves, but there’s not a strong enough heir to just shove him aside just yet, the last thing we fucking need is a family turf war. Best to play nice for now.”

Shirou eyes Shiki speculatively. “How old are you now?”

“Sixteen.”

“Hm, you could pass for twenty-two,” Shirou says. “I bet by the time you’re eighteen I could just send you instead. Pay close attention today then, so I never have to go back.”

Shiki’s trying desperately to keep his face impassive, even as the car rolls to a stop in front of a suit store.

“Well, come go on,” Shirou says, popping open his door. “Can’t take you to a family meeting in a school uniform. We don’t care what they think, but looks are everything in this business. Remember that.”

Shiki climbs out of the car onto a sidewalk in a part of town he’s never been before. The stores are the type you don’t even enter unless you’ve got several thousand burning a hole in your pocket.

Shirou walks in like he usually does, an odd combination of acting like he owns the place combined with a seeming expectation that he’s just waiting to see something that delights him. A man in a suit materializes by his elbow.

“Mr. Orihara, how can we help you today?”

Shirou claps Shiki on the shoulder. “This one needs a suit in the next thirty minutes.”

There’s a tape measure snapped around Shiki’s waist before Shirou even finishes talking. “Unfortunately, we cannot make one in that time frame, will a tailored one suit your needs?”

“For now,” Shirou says, “but he’ll need more soon enough.”

“I understand completely,” the clerk says, measuring Shiki in some places that he’s almost certain no one other than young school boys actually do. “However, may I ask how old the young sir is? It will affect what style of suit we choose.”

“How old are you again?”

“Sixteen.”

“Sixteen,” Shirou reports to the clerk, already bustling off to behind the counter.

“Do the sirs have any idea what color they would like the suits to be?”

“Ooh,” Shirou says, rubbing the back of his head. “Should have asked Kyouko, she’s really got a better eye for this than I do.”

“We have a new paisley pattern I think sir would love,” the clerk says, bringing out a series of swatches in truly horrifying colors. But on closer inspection, they are indeed paisley and not an odd vomit camouflage pattern that Shiki had originally assumed.

There’s a vibration against his left thigh, a series of short bursts and dots that tap out _K_ for Kyouko.

“Mrs. Orihara thinks that a dark gray would be best for now,” he reports.

Shirou looks sadly down at the paisley swatches, caressing them gently. “I suppose she’s right. Dove grey it is then.”

“Very good,” and the clerk darts off into the back.

“Kyouko always knows what looks best,” Shirou tells Shiki, and it’s not his imagination that makes him sound wistful. “She has an eye for that sort of thing.”

Shirou paces for a bit, examining every nook and cranny of the shop. “It’s a real shame about the whole misogyny thing in the family business,” Shirou says at long last, “otherwise I’d send her to deal with the Kiode Clan. She’d have those bastards cowering in their ill-fitting suits.”

Shiki has absolutely no doubt of that.

Then it clicks back into place. Orihara-kai is under the Koide clan. It’s odd to think that the Orihara-kai could be under the control of _anything_.

Let alone one of the _smaller_ families in Japan.

Sure, they’ve got influence and they have members and subsidiaries scattered around the country, but they’re not top three. Not top five. Maybe top six, not exactly an accolade to brag about when there’s maybe ten families that exist on that sort of level.

The assistant bustles back out, cradling a suit in his arms like a child. “Will this suffice?”

Shirou doesn’t glance up from his phone. “It’ll do, I’m sure. Shiki, go change. I’ll pay for it.”

It fits. Of course it fits. It does more than fit, it makes him look less like a twig and more muscular, giving him a shape as if he had muscles, something he’s never been able to achieve on his own.

He walks out to a camera flash. Shirou taps on his phone, staring tensely before a smile breaks out.

“She says it’s okay!” Shirou announces to a relieved suit salesman.

Shiki’s pocket buzzes. _You look very nice,_ Kyouko texts. _We’ll see about having it weighted to conceal weapons at a later time._

Oh. Of course.

“Off we go,” Shirou says, sweeping Shiki out the door and into the car, peeling away from the curb as soon as they’re in. “So, unfortunately we don’t know for sure what the meeting’s about,” Shirou says cheerfully. “Technically, we’re not even supposed to know about it.”

The Orihara-kai doesn’t know what the meeting is about? Somehow, Shiki doesn’t find that particularly reassuring.

“We, well, _Kyouko,_ thinks that’s because Koide — doesn’t know what it’ll be about yet, that it’s just to show he has a bigger penis than everyone else, I’m paraphrasing a little. But she’s usually right about things like this.” Shirou taps his phone a few times and Shiki’s pings. “We have some thoughts on what it might be, but those will largely be for me to field. Mostly you just need to stand there and look threatening. And provide me with any information I might need.” Shirou smiles winningly. “I’m sure you’ll do _fine._ ”

Any information he might need? Just on the Orihara-kai or in general? How does he deliver it? “Of course, sir.”

Shirou sits back, crossing his legs in front of him as the car swerves violently to the chorus of angry honks and screeches. “Might as well try and relax, the Koide place is in the middle of nowhere so the rest of us lackeys can be inconvenienced as possible at the snap of his fat fingers.”

Shiki takes the time to study like he’s never studied before, and it feels like he’s cramming for a test, feels so much like an all-nighter he can almost taste the acrid energy drink on his tongue.

Except he has no idea what he’s studying for and there are potentially dangerous consequences to not knowing.

Wonderful.

All too soon, they’re pulling up to gates with a very inconspicuous guard house and gates with barbed wire.

The Koide family house is just as large as the Orihara’s, but somehow twice as ostentatious and lavishly decorated.

“Fucking bastards,” Shirou mutters as they pull up to the front. “Blood-sucking power hungry motherfuckers.”

Shirou stomps to the front door, leaving Shiki to trail desperately behind, trying to keep up with Shirou’s long stride. He manages, he thinks, but barely. It’s probably for the best anyway, it wouldn’t do to be caught staring at what he assumes is security, the estate dotted with men in suits with odd bulges at the hip.

“Take a look, Shiki,” Shirou says before opening the front door, “this is what the textbook definition of ‘overcompensation’ looks like.”

And with that, Shirou opens the door to the Koide stronghold, oak door swinging on silent hinges.

Ostentatious doesn’t even begin to cover the opulence within those doors. The wood of the floors gleams with a near mirror-like shine. Art from the tasteful to the tacky crouches in every corner, aesthetic clearly not as much an issue as the cost of the piece. In between paintings, the dead, glassy eyes of mounted animal heads stare down.

The floor, not to be left out, wears a tiger pelt across it in front of a smattering of lost-looking leather arms chairs.

Gold shimmers from every surface that it could conceivably be tacked onto, from doorknobs to light fixtures.

Shirou’s shoes make sharp, authoritative clacks as he walks down the floor, echoing off of high ceilings with glittering and sharp-looking chandeliers.

“Should have gotten you a piece before we left,” Shirou muses, not as quietly as Shiki thinks maybe he should. Maybe it’s part of a ploy of some sort. “But then, have you ever shot a gun, Shiki? I doubt it. Just as likely you’d blow your own dick off as cause real damage to anyone here.”

A gun? In the family headquarters? Tense family relations are one thing, coming armed and dangerous is quite another.

Shiki’s trying to calculate how long it would take them both to reach the car at a dead sprint and route back to the Orihara Estate when Shirou stops in front of an oak door that looks remarkably like the other oak doors.

“Show time.”

Everyone is as clearly pleased to see Shirou as he’s pleased to be there.

“Ah, Orihara,” one man sprawled in a leather chair says. He doesn’t sound surprised as much as disappointed, but the man next to him looks like Shirou is the second coming of Christ. “You’re here.”

“Mhm,” Shirou agrees as a man scrambles out of a leather chair to join the ranks of lesser men lining the walls.

Shiki takes a spot behind Shirou as he sags into his chair, like he sees other suits doing, hovering at their boss’s elbows waiting for a command.

He’s not the youngest in the room by much, but he’s certainly still the youngest.

Shirou sits at the polished wood table in one of the swivel chairs, clearly bored out of his mind, head pillowed on one hand. No one looks surprised.

Well. Not anymore.

In fact, Shirou’s hardly the only glazed eye in the room. Most of the heads have a look of polite interest or rapt attention, but they’ve been gone just as long as Shirou has.

Ah, the inner workings of organized crime: numbers and finances.

“Our projected earnings have dipped significantly over the past year,” the man at the front says. Shiki has gathered that this _isn’t_ Koide himself, but one of his lieutenants instead. In fact, the head has apparently not seen fit to show his face at the meeting. No one seems overly surprised, least of all Shirou.

It’s then that the doors to the conference room open, and everyone rises to their feet, even Shirou with an eye-roll and a muted sigh.

“And that’s why we think some families have been remiss in paying their adequate dues,” the new arrival says, looking around the room with a hawkish gleam in his eye. The traditional clothes and the lack of returned eye contact can only mean one thing: this is Koide Yohiro, patriarch of the clan.

“Fuck,” Shirou says, under his breath, hand starting to move under the table.

Shiki’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Intense Orihara training makes him want to reach for it immediately, but he chances a glance around the room first to make sure it won’t get his hand chopped off.

_Pls get ledger sheets from K, she nos which ones, URGENT_

Oh.

Well then. So that’s how it’s going. Though Shiki briefly wonders who would’ve been the target if Shirou hadn’t shown up. Or if that would have painted a larger target on his back, not being there to defend his family from the bureaucracy and witch hunt of organized crime.

_Shirou needs ‘the ledgers.’ In a meeting with Koide head._

The response is near instantaneous. _How’s the mood?_

_Poisonous._

_This one then. Orihara.earnings.fiscalyear03.xls_

Shiki’s seen the spreadsheets. Sometimes when Kyouko’s just too nauseous to squint at tiny little numbers on a bright screen and Izaya’s curled around some book like a dragon with a treasure, Shiki will crunch numbers under the careful guidance of Kyouko.

And these numbers. Just aren’t quite right.

It’s a lot of money, that’s for damn sure. Enough that Shiki has to disentangle his conception of what currency can do from the numbers in front of him.

But it’s not _quite_ right.

Orihara-kai shells out so much in paying informants and keeping the closest modern equivalent of ninjas on their payroll they could probably buy their own small country if they wanted. Not to mention the equipment, the translators, the servers to store the information, the IT crack squad that Shirou has on speed-dial, and repairs from Izaya’s ‘experiments.’

Absolutely none of that is reflected.

The ‘informant’ budget is so small they would have to give each and every single person on their payroll a single diner mint as payment.

It’s a complete and utter fake that wouldn’t stand a moment of scrutiny from anyone who had the vaguest idea of the scope of their operations.

“Orihara,” Koide snaps, “we haven't seen your financial information.”

“I sent it along with my dues,” Shirou says, checking his nails. “You know, so you could verify the amount. As I do every year. As we _all_ do every year.”

Koide doesn’t seem too pleased with that answer. “Interesting, then, that we have not found your records in our files. More so that your dues were less this year than last.”

“It happens,” Shirou shrugs. “The economy, ya know. I can have my lieutenant send you a new copy, he should have it on his phone, your email address hasn’t changed, right?”

“It’s fine,” Koide says, looking like he’s had an unfortunate bout with a sour lemon. “But we still need to address the colossal loss of funds. We need to tighten loyalty within our ranks, to remember what the bonds of family really mean.”

Koide goes on like this for a solid hour, long enough that Shiki’s tempted to rock back and forth to relieve the pressure on his heels. Long enough that some of the heads begin to look as bored as Shirou at the start, and Shirou might actually be asleep on the polished wood.

At hour two, Shirou stands, and every eye is drawn to him. “Brothers, this is a trying time,” Shirou starts, then launches into an impassioned speech.

Shiki’s listening to every word, of course. He doesn’t understand a single one. Of course he understand them individually, just not in conjunction. But the way Shirou speaks makes him feel like he should know. He should understand.

And looking around the room, everyone else seems to feel the exact same way.

It’s sheer charisma at work, enchanting and weaving around all of them.

“Thank you,” Shirou ends, before striding out of the room. Shiki follows at his heels, the middle of his shoulder blades itching with a future bullet. “Hurry up, Shiki,” Shirou says, breaking into a jog halfway down the hallway, “Izaya’ll be getting out of school soon, can’t be late.”

❖

Thetwins are born with a truly _fantastic_ amount of fanfare.

“Shirou,” Kyouko says calmly one morning, “the twins are coming.”

Shirou is anything but calm as he rushes around the house, gathering everything from pillows Kyouko might need to snacks in case she gets hungry to books she might want to read.

“Shirou, love,” Kyouko says, glancing at his selections. “I’ll be intense pain. I won’t be able to concentrate on reading.”

“I know, dear heart,” Shirou says, “I’ll read to you.”

Kyouko’s face twists for a moment and Shirou looks so positively helpless it’s easy to forget he commands more resources than leaders of some countries. “I appreciate it,” Kyouko says at last.

“Shiki, we’re leaving,” Shirou says, scooping Kyouko into his arms. “Don’t know how long we’ll be, Izaya doesn’t have to go to school until we get back. Actually, bring him to the hospital when I call to meet his sisters okay, byeee.” And a slamming door indicates that Shirou made it to the garage.

“Well, it’s just you and me,” Shiki says. But Izaya’s not in the room. And not in his bedroom. And not in the living room, or Shirou’s office, or his parent’s room, even though Shiki had to screw up all sorts of courage to go in there.

He finds Izaya on the grounds, hiding beside the koi pond.

And he really is hiding, the sweeping trails of the willows hide a good portion of it from sight, obscuring a small stone table covered in dust from disuse and the even smaller form of Izaya crouching at the water’s edge, trailing his fingers in the water.

“Did you know koi eat anything?” Izaya says dully. “They’ll eat each other if one dies.”

Shiki sits beside Izaya, cross-legged, watching the koi coil lazily in the fading light.

“Mama taught me that,” Izaya says, pulling his fingers out. “Even beautiful things can be dangerous. Even what appears to be useless can have a purpose if you look hard enough.”

“Sounds very wise.”

Izaya just hums, fingers causing small ripples. Sometimes the fish will come up and nibble lightly at Izaya’s fingers before darting away to the darker areas of the pool. Not that there are many light areas anymore, the sun’s set fast and winter still has enough of a hold that it’s getting cold.

“Your parents still love you, you know. Very much.”

Izaya laughs, and it’s an odd sound out of a child. “I know. But maybe they love me _less_ now.”

“I doubt it.”

“Of course you do,” Izaya says, “your parents didn’t love you to begin with, you wouldn’t be able to tell.”

Shiki’s jaw starts to ache in the very back. But he relaxes and the pain vanishes. “I suppose there’s no way to tell than to wait and watch.”

Izaya tilts his head, a faraway look in his eyes. He pulls his fingers out of the water, pruned now, to stroke a rock along the edge. It’s darker than the rest, probably an aesthetic choice to draw the eyes, but the water trails Izaya’s fingers leave make it look like blood instead.

Izaya just hums again, but he looks at Shiki and some sort of clarity comes into his eyes. “But you’re here to be mine, right?”

“Of course,” Shiki says, pushing to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat. Since you skipped dinner to brood.”

“Tuna?”

“Don’t push it.”

❖

GettingIzaya to school in the morning is harder than it should ever need to be.

“I want pancakes,” Izaya says, arms crossed, face set in a pout. His blazer is askew from Haruya forcing his arms through it, hair rumpled.

“I told you, there’s not enough _time,”_ Haruya says, shoving notebooks and folders back into Izaya’s bag from where he had thrown them.

“But I _want_ them.”

“Then get out of bed when I tell you to. Come on, we’re going to be _late.”_

“I’m not _going,”_ Izaya says, lip curling up like his mother’s does, “until I get pancakes.”

And he won’t either.

Izaya will sit in that chair until the house burns down around him or he gets his damn pancakes.

But it’s already a quarter past seven and school starts at seven forty five sharp and they really should have left ten minutes ago.

So Haruya swings Izaya’s bag to join his over one shoulder and Izaya over the other.

Izaya’s just dead weight for the first few seconds, heavier than he looks. Haruya makes it to the front door mostly by the power of sheer irritation.

He makes it all the way outside before Izaya starts flailing and ten more meters before Izaya lands a foot solidly in his gut and a fist in his kidney.

His knees buckle at the same time that his breath leaves his body. Izaya goes sprawling out on the front lawn, blinking with a startled look up at the sky.

“You little _shit,”_ Haruya snarls before his self-preservation instincts can put his mouth on lock-down.

That gets Izaya out of his shock-induced stupor faster than a bucket of cold water. “You can’t say that to me.”

And it’s not the petulant tones of a child Haruya expected either. It’s the ice-cold tones of real hurt he’s desperately trying to hide.

Deep breathes.

“No, you’re right, I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

Izaya stares at him for a second. It’s far too much to expect Izaya to apologize. But Izaya grasps his hand and says, “It’s time to go to school,” and lets Shiki fix his hair and uniform. He doesn’t let go of Shiki’s hand the entire way to school, and that’s good enough.


	2. Interim

“Do we _have_ to?” Izaya says in a last-ditch effort to convince his parents to see sense.

“You like visiting your grandparents,” Momma says, and she looks a lot like Shiki does in the way that her eyes have shadows underneath and she’s slouching a little. She’s looked like that ever since the Leeches came back. A solid reason to _return_ them, in Izaya’s opinion.

Who _cares_ if it’s illegal to sell or murder or leave them at a nice-looking doorstep. Izaya’s rather under the impression that _none_ of the business his family does is strictly legal. It’s part of being yakuza. Best do it now before they become too attached.

“It could be worse,” Dad says. “Could be the lizards.”

“ _Shirou._ Don’t call my parents that in front of Izaya! _”_

“But it’s _true.”_

No, Izaya likes _seeing_ his grandparents. They always have this air of confused acceptance around them, like they don’t understand him even a little but love him anyway for simply existing. It’s very nice.

It’s why Grandpa keeps trying to give him turnips for presents and it’s fun and all, but they _do_ grow turnips in the middle of nowhere and it’s really not that interesting after the third time.

The most interesting thing to happen to that town, if you hear them talk, was dad.

And before that was the first flushing toilet.

It’s a slow place where nothing happens and the only way to move forward is to get out.

“Shiki’s coming,” Shirou says cheerfully. “Your grandparents have been dying to meet him. Well, one set at least.”

Is he now? He won’t last ten hours outside of a city, it’s too ingrained in his bones. This will be _fun._

 

They’ve been here about three hours and Izaya’s ready to go back to the city.

“I’m _bored.”_

“Read a book.”

Shiki, irritatingly enough, is not about to crawl out of his skin like _he should be._ He’s sprawled on the porch steps like a long, lazy cat, soaking up the sunlight.

“I’ve read them all, they’re _boring.”_

“We can go to the bookstore, I saw one in town.”

“All of those are boring too. _All_ books are boring.”

“Sounds like quite the problem,” Shiki says, sounding supremely unconcerned.

“Let me use your phone,” Izaya says, already reaching for Shiki’s pockets, fishing it out.

“Sure, of course, knock yourself out.”

Really? Interesting. Shiki must have forgotten what he did last time he had hands on his phone long enough.

Oh, that’s why. “There’s no _internet_. You _traitor._ ”

Shiki just hums. “I know. Isn’t it so relaxing?”

He’s doing it just to get to him, Izaya’s pretty confident. There’s no way he actually _enjoys_ this.

Izaya flops down onto the grass in front of the patio. He’s going to die out here. Expire from boredom. And Shiki will be his only witness, since his family, the ones that are supposed to _love_ him _forever_ are too obsessed with lumpy sacks of flesh to pay him any attention. They’re not even that interesting.

“Babies can’t see anything until they’re one month,” Izaya says. “And they can’t see well until one _year.”_

“Oh?”

“And they don’t smile cause they know what it means, they do it because it makes people coo over them.”

“Seems to be a pretty effective strategy.”

Of course it does. Because they’re little _manipulators._

“You know, I actually brought something for you.” Shiki heaves himself up and Izaya swears he hears Shiki’s bones creak and crack like Grandpa’s do, but he doesn’t say anything because he’s practicing what momma calls _restraint_ and _being nice to Shiki._

It’s very hard.

Shiki’s gone for just long enough that Izaya’s starting to suspect he’s been sucked into the baby black hole and is starting to consider thinking about maybe debating going in to rescue him. But Shiki resurfaces, looking a little ruffled and startled. A mean feat, Izaya is perfectly aware. There’s only one possible explanation.

“She tried to feed you, ne?”

“I didn’t know turnips could be prepared so many different ways.”

“So much affection. Must be very scary for you. Did she try to hug you too?”

“Yes, I might never recover.” Shiki walks over and crouches down. “I got you a book.”

“Ooh, thanks. A _book.”_ But Izaya reaches up and takes it anyway. _Native Poisons and Their Uses: An Illustrated Guide._

Oooh, nice.

Oh.

“Shiki,” Izaya says, “there’s a forest just past the turnip fields.”

“Is that right?”

“ _Shiki,”_ Izaya says, “let’s _go._ We have to find some.”

Izaya’s off like a shot, Shiki trailing behind at a more sedate pace, but that’s just because he has to be more careful, picking over the roots and rocks.

The forest has never been so _interesting._

Somehow he never noticed how the plants twin and twine around each other, and the way some plants thrive in the sun and others in shadow. The way the sun plays with the trees and leaves and dapples on the ground. And it’s fascinating, all of it, the way it comes together in a thousand little parts.

He likes it even when the sun starts to set and Shiki says he can’t take any of the poison back because ‘don’t think I don’t know you.’

But still.

_Fun._

 

Shiki’s always on time to pick him up, without a hitch.

Well, sort of.

Shiki’s always there, who he has in tow is another matter.

“Found a new one already? What happened to Kara?”

“This is Chiko,” Shiki says, ignoring both Izaya’s barb and the way Chiko’s lips go a little tight.

Izaya can’t figure out if the smart ones are the ones that try and ingrate themselves to him or the ones that immediately identify him as the greatest threat to Shiki’s attention.

Probably the former. They, at least, recognize which one of them has the actual power here.

“Hello, Izaya,” Chiko says in that sickly-sweet voice that adults use when they find children disgusting and stupid but try desperately to hide it. “I like your backpack. My favorite color’s blue, too.”

Izaya casts an eye in Shiki’s direction and lifts an eyebrow, but Shiki is as stoic and unapologetic as always. He doesn’t choose them for their _personality,_ after all.

Izaya just glowers at her.

He glowers at her down the street.

To bus.

On the train.

At the shopping mall.

Shiki is _immune,_ frustratingly.

But Chiko isn’t as lucky. She’s tougher than most of Shiki’s choices, he’ll grant her that. But she starts to look uncomfortable even before Shiki parks the two of them down at a table in the food court.

“Izaya, are you hungry?”

“No.”

“Great, chicken nuggets for you. And Chiko? Can I get you anything?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” she says.

“Alright,” Shiki says, wandering off to get Izaya food.

This leaves Izaya with a decision. Continue his silent war of attrition, or go for the kill while Shiki is out of earshot.

It’s hardly a decision, really.

“Is it because you think he’s rich?”

Chiko’s eyes snap to him.

“No, that’s not it. It’s because you think you can fix him, isn’t it? Heal his broken soul?”

“I don’t know—”

“Yes, you do.” The table is filthy. Rings of sodas and food long past. His mother would never suffer to take him to a place like this, to be in a place like this. His father might. “You want to patch him up through your _love_ and _acceptance_ and he’ll love you with your shitty personality and your flaws.”

Chiko’s lips are tight, and she starts to say something, but Izaya cuts her off.

“And you’re _wrong_. Because he’s _not_ broken and he _doesn’t_ need fixing. And you’ll always have your shit personality and sub-par intellect and your looks will fade and then where will you be?”

He knows it cuts more from him because he’s young and pretty and those are two things that people never think of as cruel until they’re reminded they are. Chiko doesn’t cry, which is disappointing. Doesn’t storm off, either. But her eyes are a little wider than when they sat down and her cheeks are a little redder.

“They didn’t have any more toys for their children’s meals, and I know you’re heartbroken, but please try and contain yourself,” Shiki says, placing food in front of Izaya. Must be a late dinner, then, Shiki would never give him this much food otherwise.

Izaya is actually a little upset that there’s no toy, but there’s no use in complaining now. Maybe that was Shiki’s plan all along.

“Shiki, can I talk to you for a second?” Chiko says, placing a hand on his arm.

“Sure.”

“Alone.”

“Sorry,” Shiki says, sounding completely unapologetic. “Can’t leave Izaya alone.”

Which isn’t _strictly_ true, but Izaya will forgive Shiki for using him as an emotional barrier in exchange for the inevitable fallout.

Chiko’s lips thin, but she leans in and whispers in Shiki’s ear. Izaya can’t hear it over the sound of humanity, but Shiki can. Somehow his eyes become harder and his own lips thin and he spits out:

“Leave.”

“What?”

“I said leave.”

And finally, Chiko storms away.

Izaya munches a chicken nugget happily.

Shiki rolls his eyes but rustles Izaya’s hair, “I thought she would last longer than that.”

Izaya shrugs.

“Is it even worth it to ask you to stop scaring them away?”

Izaya shrugs again. “They’re annoying.”

Shiki sighs. “Fair enough.

The world is righted.

 

The twins are the worst.

Honestly, they’re ugly little things, faces squished and red all the time. And they smell.

Constantly.

If it’s not of shit, then it’s of something like spoiled milk and stale bread. Or vomit.

They’re not even interesting. All they do is burble and sleep and eat and poop and cry.

They never stop _crying._

“Shiki,” Izaya says, coming into Shiki’s room, pushing it shut with a heel behind him. It barely muffles the twins screeches, echoing through the halls in stereo. But Izaya knows what will. “I have a _plan._ ”

Shiki sits up, and his hair looks all kinds of stupid but Izaya kindly refrains from pointing that out. Because the bags under Shiki’s eyes are growing something awful and he’s in prime form to come over to the right side. “For what?”

“For a peaceful night’s rest.”

Shiki runs a hand over his face. “Izaya, I’ve told you, that’s not _legal—”_

“It’s not _that,_ ” Izaya says, clambering up onto Shiki’s bed. “A new idea.”

“Oh?”

“So,” Izaya says, “I found some people on the network, looking for —”

“Izaya, _selling_ your sisters is just as bad as killing them.”

The cries crest into a screeching match, what sounds like the twins trying to outdo each other.

“Who cares if it’s illegal,” Izaya says, flopping across Shiki’s legs. They’re really bony and uncomfortable, but it’s a sacrifice he needs to make.

“Fine. It’s _immoral.”_

“Again. Who _cares?”_ Izaya flops over again. Shiki’s legs are still uncomfortable. He should work on that. “Aren’t you supposed to be on my side? Help me with all my plans?”

Shiki sighs and rubs his face again. He does that a lot. It’s not going to prevent him from premature wrinkles if that’s what he’s after. “I _am_ on your side. That’s why I’m telling you it’s a bad idea.”

“No,” Izaya counters, “they would be raised in another home with people that want them so much they’re willing to pay and we can finally get a good night’s sleep.”

Shiki looks like he’s considering it. That’s because Izaya know his weak points and his precious sleep is the biggest one he’s got.

“Your parents wouldn’t like it,” Shiki says at last.

Oh. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

That does make a bit of sense. They did go through so much effort to bring them forth into the world and all that.

“Why’d they go through so much effort to make something so _annoying?”_

Shiki snorts. “All babies start out annoying.

“I wasn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Dad said I was _perfect.”_

Shiki snorts again. Whatever. That’s just because his mom went and _died_ on him so he’s still a bit upset about the whole parent thing.

“Of course. Just go back to sleep and try and ignore them.”

“Oh, that’s a great idea. Because I’ve been staying up all this time listening to their cries trying to determine the specific pitch.”

Shiki sits up just to glare at him. “You’re a little shit, you know that.”

“I learned sarcasm from you.”

“Just one of my many, _many_ regrets.”

Shiki’s quiet for a moment, but Izaya knows him well enough to be perfectly aware that there’s no way he’s sleeping.

“Why do you think the stork brought two babies instead of one?”

He can feel the tension. It’s so _delicious._

 _“_ It just happens sometimes.”

“What happens sometimes?”

“That there are two babies instead of one. Go to sleep, Izaya.”

“But _why?”_

“Because sometimes the stork rewards extra good parents with extra babies to take care of, go to _sleep.”_

Oh, he really makes this too easy.

“You know that the stork is a metaphor for the uterus, right?” Izaya says, and Shiki’s tension doubles, no, _triples._ “Did they not teach you this in health class?”

“Izaya—”

“You see,” Izaya says. “When a mommy and daddy love each other very much, or you know, two people want to get busy—”

“Please don’t do this to me.”

“It’s very important to me that you know this, especially with all the girlfriends you keep banging.”

“Christ, not you too.”

“What?”

“I said, you’re too young to know that.”

“There’s never too young of an age for _knowledge.”_

“But it is too late for knowledge,” Shiki says. “We both have school in the morning. Are you sleeping here?”

“The floor is cold. Hurts my feet.”

“Of course it does.”

 

 

There’s a _click_ as Dad places a tile decisively on the board.

Izaya doesn’t actually like shogi, if he’s entirely honest. It’s boring, there’s no element of chaos outside of the humans that play it and even they’re constricted to a set of rules. There’s only so many ways it could play out and only one objective to be pursued and thus only one way to win.

Dad always starts with moving his bishop. So do 75% of professional shogi players.

Izaya always goes first. Those that go first generally win 54% percent of the time.

When using a single deck of cards to play poker, there are exactly 2,598,960 different five card hands. He doesn’t know how many distinct games of shogi there are, if you play with the objective to win. Maybe he’ll ask Shiki. He won’t know of course, but it’s fun to see his eyebrows dip for that tiny little second.

But then again, there’s only a one in four thousand chance that you’ll get a straight flush, that you’ll win instantly.

Shogi’s victory takes time and there’s a roughly fifty percent chance, no amount of chips up the sleeve will change that.

Dad loves Shogi though. And it’s _theirs._ Mama never plays with him and the twins chew on their toes and don’t know that things exist when they can’t see them.

“What’s on your mind, tiger?” Dad asks as Izaya places his next tile. “You never think that hard about your next move.”

“Games,” Izaya says, “and how they reflect life.”

“Oh?” Dad surveys the board, twisting a his ring around his finger. Izaya can’t remember a time it hasn’t gleamed on his fingers. Sometimes Mama takes her off for things, but Dad never does. Despite that, it gleams brightly on his finger, never dirty.

It doesn’t fit with what Izaya’s seen. That sometimes, people start to hate each other. Or worse. They simply don’t care, ghosting past each other in a life that they cohabitate but don’t share.

“Shogi is about the players and their choices,” Izaya says as Dad clack his piece down. “There’s no chance to it. That’s not like life at all.”

“Some theories says there’s no chance, if you hold all the information. If you know your opponent.”

“There’s no way to have all the information,” Izaya says. “Life isn’t shogi. Not all the pieces are out in the open for you to see. There isn’t always one opponent for you to contend with. There’s always an element of chance, ne? Maybe someone sees a TV show their daughter’s watching and they’re inspired and they have a radical change in strategy. A ball bounces into the street and there’s a car accident and someone dies. It’s all _chance.”_

“It’s not all chance,” Dad says, raising his eyebrows. “One action plays into another, we make _choices._ ”

“We play the cards we’re given,” Izaya says, “and not everyone is given the same cards.”

Dad laughs suddenly, a full body thing. “Shiki been teaching you how to play poker, huh?”

Izaya pouts, “how’d you know?”

“Call it intuition,” Dad says, snickering as he clicks his piece down. “But life is a combination of both, wouldn’t you say? Chance and planning, planning for chance. There’s no way to plan for everything, but you can limit the amount of chance, right? The balance between being too rigidly locked in and not planning for all contingencies. Being flexible so you can bend without breaking, but rigid enough to maintain what you were in the beginning.”

“Sounds complicated."

“It's a delicate dance," Dad says playing his next piece. “One you have to learn."

“What happens if I don't?"

“Nothing good."

“Has it ever happen to you?"

There's a look in dad’s eyes, as if he is looking off far away twisting the ring around his finger. Izaya can’t remember a time it hasn’t gleamed on his fingers. Sometimes Mama takes hers off, but Dad never does. Despite that, it gleams brightly on his finger, never dirty.

“No. And let’s hope it stays that way.”

 

The room is dark, and he’s the only one in it.

But sometimes, it doesn’t _feel_ like it.

“Shiki,” Izaya says, pushing the door open. “Are you awake?”

Shiki groans. “What happens if I say no?”

Izaya leaps on his bed. “That’d be impossible then, ne?”

“Your intellectual prowess knows no bounds,” Shiki sits up, rubbing his eyes. “Can you not sleep? Do you want me to read to you?”

“Nah,” Izaya says. “It’s just too cold in my room.”

“I see. Did a wendingo break in?”

“Wendingo’s don’t _cause_ cold, they just come with it.”

“Oh?”

“It’s probably just part of a myth to explain cannibalism in colder climates.”

“Mh-hm.”

Shiki’s a rather attentive audience. As he should be, Izaya _is_ the most interesting thing in the room.

“So you’re not going back to your bed?” Shiki says, about an hour later.

“They’re all my beds,” Izaya reminds him, snuggling down under the covers, “this is my house.”

Shiki sighs, but doesn’t say anything and Izaya falls asleep to the soothing rhythm of his deep, slow breathes.

 

 

Shiki really shouldn’t leave his computer out like this, it’s a _security hazard._

And he really should change his password every once in a while, using the same one—

Oh. He did.

No matter.

_P@ssword123_

Nope.

_Iluvizaya54_

Nope. Damn, that sometimes works for dad’s things.

_Camellia11264_

Ah, nope. So he’s moved on from being a complete mama’s boy, huh?

Hmm, that makes it a bit harder.

Think, think.

Ah, ha!

_Izayafuckoff_

Success.

Really, this could all be avoided if Dad would just give him access to the servers. So much easier. Actually, now that he thinks about it, Dad’s not really the issue, huh? Momma doesn’t want him to ‘become involved too deep too early.’ Like he wasn’t born into it or something.

Oooh, Shiki’s literature essay.

Nah, if he deletes it, Shiki will know and he doesn’t want _that._

He’s an awful writer, honestly. Technical and dry, none of the metaphorical flair that makes it exciting.

Eh, who cares, there’s new treasures to be discovered in the database.

_Oh._

_Now that’s interesting._

 

 

Minute 27:

Shiki continues to search the house. Has so far searched the koi pond, Izaya’s room, and Dad’s study. Must acquire new haunts. Cannot be that predictable.

Minute 28:

Shiki has flopped on the couch, appears to be on his phone? No, he’s sleeping. He’s _sleeping?_ Seriously? What if he had been _kidnapped?_ What if he was _bleeding_ and _dying?_

Izaya slips out of the secret passage. It’s a bit harder than it used to be, if he’s honest. The corners dig into his stomach and his elbow bangs against the side, but he still _fits_ and that’s what’s important.

As long as he’s stealthy enough to slip up next to Shiki on the couch. He’s thinking jumping on Shiki’s chest should be a good enough— _shit._

Shiki’s eyes fly open and he has Izaya by the waist before he can even move, pulling him into his chest. “I caught you.”

“That’s not _fair!_ That’s cheating!” Izaya squeals even as Shiki’s fingers find his stomach with unerring accuracy. “No!”

“Strategy isn’t _cheating_.”

“Stop! Stop! No torture!”

“Tickling isn’t _torture,”_ Shiki says, but stops anyway. “Would show you, stop hiding in the secret passages you think I don’t know about. What if you’re bleeding or dying and I can’t find you?”

“I would start to smell eventually, then you’d have no problem, ne?”

“You’re such a little shit.”

 

Dad’s office in the underground bunker is pretty neat.

For one, the chairs are comfortable and squishy and Dad doesn’t nag him to do his homework like Shiki does.

Speaking of.

“Where’s Shiki?”

“I sent him off on an errand.”

“Oh.”

There’s something disquieting about Shiki already having left and Izaya not noticing, but Shiki has been leveling up his ninja skills lately, so it’s not that big of a surprise that he managed to creep out.

“So you agreed to help the Triad move into Japan.”

“Yup,” Dad says. “Did you figure that out just from the time you spent on Shiki’s laptop? Incredible, that was only about a half hour. _.”_

Izaya puffs his cheeks out. “How’d you know?”

“Shiki was out that evening.”

“Yeah, off _fucking.”_

“Now, now,” Dad says, mildly. “Don’t be so hard on him, he’s that age. He can do in his freetime what he wants.”

“I’m never gonna do that, it’s _gross.”_

So many people touching him, leaving their disgusting fingerprints on his skin. He knows that skin falls off and is replaced. He knows that just about each cell dies and is replaced every seven years. But it doesn’t _feel_ like it.

Dad has that look on his face, the one he gets right before he holds Izaya real tight and apologizes. But this time he just says: “You might change your mind.”

Maybe. He doubts it.

“ _But,”_ Dad says, brightening a little. “I’ve hired someone _new._ I want you to meet him.”

“For what?”

“For managing our restaurants and other locations. To help take the stress off of your mom. And I guess to liaise with the police.”

“When’s he’s gonna be here?”

“Any a minute now.”

“Shouldn’t Shiki be here to meet him too?”

“Ah, maybe later. Oh! Here he is!”

Dad shoots out of his seat and towards the elevator, coming back a moment later with a man in tow.

He looks like someone straight out of the hard-boiled detective dramas that Shiki lets him watch sometimes. Actually, he looks a little like Shiki, with the slouched posture and bags under his eyes and the faint suggestion of tobacco around him.

“And this is my son, Izaya,” Dad says. “Izaya, this is Kine.”

Kine crouches down and extends his hand for Izaya to shake. “It’s good to meet you, your father talks very highly of you.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, too,” Izaya says, words slipping off his tongue before he quite thinks about them.

“Good to see your mother got to you,” Dad says cheerfully. “Now, if you’ll follow me—”

The door chimes, and Dad freezes. Not for long.

But it’s just Shiki, wearing a suit Izaya’s never seen and a facial expression that promises murder. Shiki stops in the threshold.

“Ah, Shiki,” Dad says. “You’re back early. This is Kine. He works for us now, he used to be a cop, isn’t that neat!”

“Ah,” Shiki says. “I look forward to working with you.” He’s got that little wrinkle between his eyebrows that speaks of suspicion and thinking too hard and plotting exits and all that nonsense.

“Ah,” Kine says, “likewise.”

He, unlike Shiki, sounds _very_ strained.

“Well,” Dad says, clapping his hands. “Now that we’ve gotten to know each other, let’s get you outfitted with all that you’ll need. Shiki, Izaya, I’ll see you at dinner.”

Izaya looks at Shiki.

Shiki looks back.

He’ll tell him later, and Izaya guesses that’s good enough.

 

“That was honestly the worst thing I've ever seen.”

“You wanted to see it,” Shiki says, “you're the one that _begged.”_

That's going a little far. “I did _not._ ”

“Practically. Was it not you that started asking three weeks ago?”

“I didn't know—”

“Wasn't it you that wrote three hundred sticky notes and stuck it around my room?”

“It was hardly three hundred.”

“Wasn't it you,” Shiki says, dragging it out, savoring each vowel, “that wrote _on my face_ —”

Izaya sniffs. “Serves you right for falling asleep.”

“It was two in the morning!” Shiki eyes him suspiciously, “did you really want to see it, or did you just know that I had plans to see it with Kiara?”

“I don’t keep track of your personal calendar.” Often. “Okay, so maybe I did want to see it,” Izaya admits, because it’s better than the alternative. “It was still a testament to the creativity of humans and the pinnacle of fiction.”

“It was about vampire princes fighting the personification of _trees,_ I don’t think it’s the pinnacle of anything.”

“Well. Still creative.”

“Fair enough.”

It’s later than Izaya’s usually let out to roam the city, far past when the sun sets and the lights flicker on and the people lose any pretense of civility.

There’s partygoers and trouble makers and thrill seekers and all of them colliding together into one, big seething mass.

The view’s fine from here, but it could be better. Here you can see the fine little details, but the bigger picture gets lost. There’s a balance to be had, _in_ the crowd but not _of,_ watching but not participating.

For now it’s his age that’s the barrier, keeping him apart.

It won’t be that way forever.

And then, they better be ready.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks you, for making it Not Suck. You're the bestest!

Apparently, killing your old boss in cold blood doesn’t make you a strong contender for joining a new family.

Who’d have thought?

It might have been better if he killed the bastard himself. Murdering the head of yakuza family is ballsy and badass , but standing aside and letting justice come to him is  _ sloppy.  _

And that leaves him here. Alone.  Akabayashi should probably buy something from the bar soon, they did let him come in after all, looking like he does,   but he’s sleep deprived as it is. Alcohol won’t help him stay sharp. It certainly won’t help him in a fight, but it might if it  _ looks  _ like he’s been drinking.  Decisions, decisions. Drink it or splash it on like some sort of crap cologne.

Then there’s the matter of  _ they let him in the bar. _

To be honest with himself, h e reeks. Hasn’t been able to take a shower in  _ days.  _ And this place?

This place is  _ nice.  _ Very classy. Speaks of money and power and shadowed corners give the appearance of intimacy for secret conversations. It’s not the kind of place that lets in men that look, well,  _ are  _ this side of homeless. 

Somebody very much wanted him in here, allowed him to come in.

He’s gonna burn the place down , can’t be dealing with that kind of rat bastard. 

Oh, but maybe not. There come his minders, the lackey’s that have nothing better to do that chase him down now that the brains of the operation has had their brains splattered on the floor . 

It’s almost pathetic, he thinks, as he walks past the barman into the bathroom. They’re not even smart enough to corner him, get all the exits. They’ve been after him all this time and they still don’t know all his tricks. 

There’s a window, just like he hoped there would be. And it even slides open large enough for him to fit through, how nice. It’s like it was designed with a quick escape in mind. 

Maybe it was. 

The alley behind the bar is nice and dim and shady and smells pleasantly of trash and urine with hints of vomit , a verage fare for outside of a bar . 

But it’s far enough from the main roads that the sound of traffic doesn’t echo down either side, making it hard to choose a direction.

Until the men in the  cheap  suits round the corner, that is. 

They look awfully cocky for there being only three of them, don’t they?

“Didn’t you bring more friends?” Akabayashi calls. Oh, they did. Seven might be a bit too many. Maybe his stench will give him an edge? Nah, best to avoid this one. 

Except they brought more, sneaking up the alley behind him. 

“Oh, look at you,” he calls cheerily, “finally learned some tactics, huh?”

“ _ Shut up!”  _ one of the more ragged-looking suits snaps. Akabayashi remembers him. He was set for a promotion, before the whole family came tumbling down around his ears. Personally, he’s not sure he’d want to inherit a position in a family that topples in the slightest breeze, but this isn’t the best and brightest here.  None of them were. 

His suit is ragged and his sleeves are torn, but Akabayashi pushes them up anyway , habit more than any desire to keep them clean . “Well? What’cha waiting for? You’re here for little ol’ me, ain’t ya?”

Fuck, if he’s gonna die here, he’s gonna bring down as many as he can anyway.

But his reputation precedes him and there’s hesitance. Because even dumbass animals know when something’s dangerous and Akabayashi? He’s the most dangerous thing they’ve ever seen, and he’s got nothing left to lose. 

It’s tense and the air is heavy with waiting. They’ve got weapons, clubs and pipes and probably a gun among them, but they don’t move.

Then they do .

It’s the new guy that moves first, so new Akabayashi doesn’t even know his name, even though he makes a point to know this shit . He comes charging first, with a yell and a heavy upper-hand swing of his pipe. He hits the ground at an awkward angle. Akabayashi can’t hear the  break over the stampeding of his comrades, but he’d bet anything that his neck is snapped.

Good. 

Then he’s not thinking at all, he doesn’t have  _ time.  _ He’s dodging a punch here, a pipe there, a knife to the ribs, snap that wrist, can’t have you armed with  _ that  _ thank you very much. He’s trying to drop them,  throw a fist into a throat there, send this one careening into that one. But god, there’s so  _ many.  _

Sometimes a fist or a kick slams home into his side and he can feel his bones creak with exhaustion and force. There’s not much room to dodge, not in this melee, but he  _ tries  _ and he uses their own untrained body weight against them and send them to the floor  _ hard. _

And he’s lucky, so lucky that it’s all ingrained now. That he can react without thought, because he’s not sure there’s room for that in all this. 

The  sound  is disconnected from the pain. He hears it, then feels the push of force. Can feel wet blood on his leg. But the pain is later and sudden and all at once. And he thought maybe he  could walk out of here, but now he’s not sure. Because most of them are on the ground but not all and  there’s definitely enough to finish what poor aim started. 

But he’s not gonna go down easy.  Not even with a bullet hole punched through. He’s going to show them  _ why  _ they call him the Red Devil. He’ll make them  _ earn  _ his death. 

And h e’s still punching and kicking when he hears it. It takes a while for it to filter in among the noise of grunts and groans and blood thundering in his ears, but it’s unmistakable. 

It’s a car, and it’s getting closer. 

And then it skids into the alley in a streak of black and a squeal of tires, plowing straight into men like they’re nothing more than large, irritating bowling pins. 

It stops in front of Akabayashi like  something out of a movie , and the passenger door is thrown open to reveal the love of his life, with a wide, maniac smile and intelligent, wild eyes.

“Come with me if you want to live ,” he says, like someone  straight from Akabayashi’s wet dreams . 

But Akabayashi’s already in the car, slamming the door behind him, studying the man as he peels out of the alleyway. He’s driving like he’s drunk, but he’s clearly in control, moving with a grace and self-awareness Akabayashi’s only seen in a few.

“Marry me?” Akabayashi says as they take a corner so fast the car fishtails out. 

“Already happily married,” the man says cheerfully, “but I’m flattered, really. I’m Orihara Shirou by the way.”

“Ah,” Akabayashi says. 

“Heard of me?”

“Of course, who hasn’t?”

Orihara laughs. “Most. That’s why I’m interested in offering you a job—”

“When do I start?”

“When you can keep your blood entirely in your body,” Orihara answers, still with that cheerful lilt, blasting through an intersection to the blaring of horns.

“Ah,” Akabayashi says again. That seems like a solid requirement for employment, this is clearly a smart man. 

“Don’t worry,” Orihara says, though Akabayashi really isn’t, “we have supplies to take care of that at my home.”

“A hot water and a roll of bandages?” 

“Don’t forget the booze.”

Oh, this one is a  _ keeper _ .

 

He feels kind of bad when he gets out of the car, leaving a pool of blood on the seat. 

“Sorry about that,” he says. But Shirou waves him off. 

“It’s fine, fine. Not exactly something you can help, is it?”

“That’s true enough.”

“’Sides, we got a cleaning crew that’ll make it good as new.” Shirou practically skips out of the garage, breezing through a mass of security systems like  they’re nothing .

“Come on, come on,” he urges, waving Akabayashi furiously into an elevator. “Once I have to carry you ‘cause you passed out from the blood loss, it isn’t fun anymore.”

And now that he mentions it, he is feeling a tad bit more faint than he wants to , and the ground feels just the slightest bit uneven. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

The elevator starts with a lurch that almost sends him to the floor, but Shirou is just about  _ bouncing.  _ “It’s been a long time since I’ve done kitchen table surgery. Not that you should worry, of course,” he hastens to add, “I was known for my steady hand. I have a hundred percent success rate. Just been a long time since I’ve been shot at, you know? I’m really more into the business side of things now. But, damn, how my blood’s pumping!” He’s got a manic sort of grin on his face that makes Akabayashi’s gut twist in a pleasant sort of way. 

The elevator dings open and he’s off like a shot, seeming to forget that Akabayashi’s just a tad bit slower at the moment. 

Akabayashi limps out of a secret garage elevator into underrated splendor.  Like he should have expected anything else.  It’s traditional and the modern meeting somewhere in the middle under an expert eye.

And it’s armed to the damn teeth.  That sword on the wall has the tell-tale shine of a blade finely honed. That wall sconces? A knife. That pot? Could fucking brain someone with it. 

His blood splatters uselessly on the floor as he limps through the prettiest fortress he’s ever seen , not sure were he intends to go .

Interesting, to leave him alone, in what he assumes is his personal house, even though he’s wounded enough he shouldn’t be a threat.

Is it a test of his trustworthiness? See what he’ll do? 

“Shirou,” a woman says as she rounds a corner. She’s flawless. From her features cut out of marble to her inky hair to her immaculate pantsuit to the air of quiet menace. She has to be Shirou’s wife, but he can’t remember a name. “Where’s— oh. You’re the new recruit, yes?”

“I’m Akabayashi Mizuki,” he says politely, bowing as deep as he can. Which isn’t very deep, but he feels she can understand. 

“Of course,” she says, wrapping her arm in his like it’s perfectly natural, not seeming to mind where his blood turns her suit bright red , or his filth underneath it all.

“Orihara Kyouko.” She begins to tug him along gently. “Please, come sit,” she says. “Are you sure I can’t call you a doctor? I really do recommend it, especially as you’ve been shot in the torso.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” Akabayashi assures her. “Just a slap a bandaid on it, I’ll walk it off.”

“You and Shirou,” she says, but there’s a wave affection in it. “I’m sure he’s in the kitchen or living room, just  chomping at the bit to have the chance to play surgeon.”

“It’s an exciting time in any man’s life.”

Kyouko laughs. “Ah, a kindred spirit. I’m sure Shirou is thrilled to have you as a playmate.”

She leads him into a— a living room he thinks it’s called. You know, the one with chairs and TV? His old apartment had one. Scaled down about ten times. He never used it. 

“Oh, good. He’s learned that the couch isn’t a good place to tend to bullet wounds. Kitchen then.”

Luckily the kitchen isn’t far, or Akabayashi’s not sure he would have made it. 

Shirou is standing near a wooden table, wearing a pair of latex gloves and hol d ing a pair of tweezer s like a weapon. 

“Forgot something, darling?”

“He would have found the way eventually,” Shirou says dismissively, flapping a hand. “Come onnnnnnnn.”

His hands tug on Akabayashi’s jacket , and he wants to make a joke, something bawdy and inappropriate, but the words won’t come. 

“There’s really no time for that anymore,” Kyouko says, and there’s the distinctive clink of scissors and suddenly he’s a lot cooler as blood-soaked fabric peels off his side. “Hop up onto the table.”

“Who did your tats?” Shirou says, and there’s a slow burn as skin is pulled taunt. 

“Some guy out in the boonies.”

“Can’t even remember a name?” A sharp burn. Probably the wound being cleaned out. “Disgraceful.”

There’s more pain, sharp and  fierce , and Akabayashi’s vision swims as dark spots dance dangerously.

“Shirou—move.  _ Move.” _

There’s sharp pinpricks of pain— familiar. Stitches. 

“It’s gonna warp the designs,” Shirou whines.

“Akabayashi, dear, do you mind a few warped designs?”

“No, ma’am,” he says, because he likes living and doesn’t want to die.

“See? Get me some hot water, let’s see  if we can’t clean him up a little. ”

Akabayashi sits up with great effort and doesn’t bother taking a look at his new stitches. It doesn’t matter, whether they warp or not. 

It doesn’t hurt any less to have the bullet out and disinfected, but at least he won’t be losing another body part. 

Today at least. 

“Come on, arms up.” Kyouko’s pantsuit is more red then when they started and Shirou looks like an extra from a horror film, but she doesn’t seem to mind and doesn’t flinch as she wraps him in bandages. “Shirou’s going to move you to the couch—there’s a sheet on it— while I make sure the guest room is prepared.”

“I thought— right, couch. Got it.”

Shirou helps him limp to the couch, and h e’s dumped on it with more care than he honestly thought Shirou would be capable of. 

“Sit tight, kay?”

Shirou bustles off, suspiciously. 

Not, that his movements are suspicious. Cause they aren’t.

It’s just suspicious.

Whatever. It’s not like he’s gonna die here. 

He should get off the couch before the blood soaks through the sheet, but he feels so heavy and it’s such a nice couch. He could happily live on this couch. Soft.

What a  _ nice _ couch. It’s like a cloud. Clouds are actually water though, and water isn’t soft. Water is cold. You know what isn’t cold? Soaplands. Nice. 

He can feel eyes on him, pulling him apart, assessing. 

Kyouko’s eyes stare down at him, but Shirou peers out, a wild mind barely contained. He focuses a bit more and it resolves into Kyouko’s face, but softer. Younger.

A young boy contemplates him, a balance of his parents with none of the charm. He feels cruel and alien and it’s not helped when he smiles and shows his teeth like a predator might. “Does it hurt?”

Akabayashi blinks. “What?”

The boy reaches out and presses a hand with unerring precision against Akabayashi’s new stitches. “This.”

Akabayashi snatches his hand, not quite sure what he’s about to do with it when a skeleton appears in the doorway.

No, not a skeleton. Another boy, older. God, the blood loss must be getting to him.

“Izaya,” the new one says, voice calm but icy, “I thought I told you to stay upstairs.” The new one speaks like Kyouko but doesn’t look a thing like either of his parents.  He draws closer, glaring steadily until Akabayashi drops ‘Izaya’s’ hand and stop s just behind Izaya. Akabayashi’s seen feral animals that looked more contained. 

“You did,” Izaya says cheerily. Akabayashi sits up, not entirely comfortable flat on his back with his soft stomach exposed. “But I wanted to come meet him.”

“You weren’t supposed to know.”

“But I did.”

Akabayashi stands,  not comfortable with being loomed over. Izaya scowls up at him, apparently having loved  looming .

And  _ then,  _ the demon baby  _ hauls  _ himself up his living wolf-human-hybrid, and he merely flinches and sighs like this was to be  _ expected.  _ Does his work package come with a minion like this? Shirou is obviously talented at finding them. Or creating them. Whichever.  He wants one. 

The demon child gazes at him squarely, like his extra height doesn’t come from arms wrapped around his knees and a secure fist in someone else’s hair. 

“How long did you know I was gonna be here?”

“Oh,  _ ages, _ ” Izaya says gleefully. “It really couldn’t last when you met that Sayaka—”

His caretaker jostles Izaya sharply. “Bed time.”

“But  _ Shiki—” _

_ “ _ I’ll read to you.”

“I’m getting too old for that,” Izaya says proudly, with vicious delight. 

“Oh, pardon me. I’ll stop then.”

“No, it’s fine. You  may continue if it makes you happy. ”

“How generous.”

The fuck? Whatever.

He’s asleep on the world’s best couch before Izaya’s voice fades entirely out of hearing.

 

_ “Izaya!”  _ the older one is yelling, stomping around the house. “It’s time for school!” He lingers at the foot of the couch. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

Yes, but Akabayashi doesn’t believe him for a minute it wasn’t entirely intentional. “It’s fine.”

“Since you’re up,” Shiki drawls.  Definitely intentional. Little shit. If this was a proper yakuza clan, he’d be on the floor. “Shirou wants you to know he’ll be by in about an hour to pick you up, I think he has an apartment set up for you somewhere in the city. Bathroom is down the hall to your right. You’ll find fresh towels underneath the sink and a change of clothes on the back of the door.”

And then he’s off. “ _ Izaya! _ ” 

He’s clearly not one of the children, meaning Shiki  _ probably  _ isn’t a first name. Hard to tell with this family .  The name Shiki  does  tickle some memory in the back of his mind, but it’s nothing concrete, ergo nothing terribly important. He’ll ponder it later. 

First, shower. He’s got his blood and the blood of his enemies on him, and while it’s a fantastic look, it does eventually begin to itch and then it’s not quite a fantastic look. 

He’s not even quite off the couch when the demon appears. 

It’s something in the eyes, the way they seem to miss nothing but are amused by it all. Something in the almost cruel twist of the mouth. In the way he holds himself and carries himself like he knows he’s better, by sheer virtue of _ being _ . 

“Good morning!” Izaya says, and it’s full of all sorts of false cheer. “Did you sleep well?”

The way he says it makes Akabayashi want to pat himself down, make sure there’s no telling holes in the stitches across his midriff where the little shit might have seen fit to relieve him of his kidney while he was conveniently punctured and all. 

“Well enough.”

Izaya smiles, and it might be adorable on other children, but it puts Akabayashi on high guard. He considers for a moment that he might be being ridiculous.

Nah.

This child is dangerous. Doubting instincts is how you get killed in his world. 

Besides, that’s probably what Izaya  _ wants  _ you to think. Probably relies on it as his main device. Shame when he grows out of it, what will he do then ?

Not Akabayashi’s problem. 

“Welcome to the family,” Izaya says. “Mama says that family is supposed to be  _ everything. _ ”

“Does she now?”

“ _ Izaya, _ ” Shiki says, gliding into the room. “It’s time for school.”

“Do I have to?” Izaya whines, “everyone’s so  _ slow.” _

“Your mother would kill me if I let you skip it . ”

“Well. It’s not impossible that you wouldn’t see me for—”

“No, Izaya.”

“But—”

“I can’t walk you to school anymore if you’re going to keep trying to ditch.”

And that’s apparently that. Izaya obediently lets Shiki steer him by the shoulder in the direction of the front door. 

Huh.

Interesting.

Well, that’s a tangled mess he wants nothing to do with. 

Best move on, then. 

Down the hall, just like Shiki said, there’s a spacious bathroom complete with a shower that looks straight out of one of those home design magazines and twice as heavenly. 

There’s nothing to be gained by looking for security cameras before he strips. Either they’re there or they’re not, and it’s not like he’s got anything to hide. If his new boss is anything like he suspects he is, he’ll already have pictures of his ass from thirty angles. Probably have all of his tattoos cataloged with meaning and date and a measurement of his dick flaccid and hard and the size of each of his fingers and made note of the scar on one of them were he almost had to cut it off but didn’t. 

But anyway, the shower is  _ excellent.  _ And filled with soaps that smell like flowers and sunshine. He rather imagines that’s Kyouko’s touch, as amazing as Shirou is, he rather gets the feeling that he’s not quite the best at the  minueate . Or has a taste for Midnight Orchid. Though he might, Shirou is clearly a man of Culture.

The suit, of course, fits perfectly, like it was tailor made for him. Perhaps it was. Probably it was. Definitely it was. 

They’re sending off two distinct messages: _ we’ll take care of you  _ and  _ don’t fuck with us  _ and Akabayashi can hear them both loud and clear. 

He walks out to find Shirou sitting on one of the couches and a team of maids busy….are they reupholstering the couch? Did he really smell that bad? 

“Akabayashi!” Shirou says like a toddler spying his favorite candy, leaping from the couch. “You’re here.”

Where the hell else would he be?

“How do you like my suit?” he says instead, giving a nice twirl so that his coat flares up. 

“Ooh, where’d you get that?” Shirou says with a measure of wonder and curiosity that  says  that he truly doesn’t know. “Ooh, Kyouko. And Shiki, probably. He’s really become her minion lately. But I must say, they do make a powerful team.” Shirou slings his arm through Akabayashi’s. “But we’ll be a better one.”

“I’m not sure I have it in me to be a yes-man like that.”

Shirou doubles over, a helpless high-pitched giggle. “Shiki? A  _ yes man? _ Oh, man. Somedays I think the kid wants to rip my throat out with his  _ teeth _ .”

“He sure seemed besotted with that kid.”

“Oh, Izaya? Who wouldn’t be, he’s amazing. Did you know he’s top of his class? In a  _ gifted  _ school?”

He really should have anticipated that. 

Shirou leads him down a hallway that Akabayashi remembers in a bleary sort of way, and he checks the ground for blood, but if it is the same hallway, it’s already disappeared. 

Now that he’s not actively dying of blood loss, he can appreciate the garage for what it is. Shirou’s making a beeline for the sports car he remembers from last night, but it’s far from the only car in the room. There’s clearly a strong preference for the black car straight out of a James Bond film, there’s about five, and a tank crouched in the corner of the room like the ugly duckling of the group. 

Shirou catches him looking. “You can borrow one if you like.”

“I don’t have a license.”

Shirou looks mortally offended. “Why not?”

“Never needed one.” Akabayashi pats his pocket, but his benevolent overlords didn’t see fit to stock his pockets with glorious tobacco .

“Ah, sorry. No cigs in the house. Can’t have the kiddos getting lung cancer. Can smoke in the car, though.”

Well, why didn’t he start with that?

True to his word, Shirou’s got a little treasure trove hidden in his glove box, various brands and sorts of cigarettes. And under that, three different types of gun crouch menacingly. 

He picks his poison and clicks  the box  shut.

It’s not polite to ask about another man’s gun. 

Shirou, meanwhile, maneuvers the car out of beautifully manicured grounds, and on to a peaceful meandering road.

Well. 

Once peaceful. 

“So, what did you think of Izaya?” Shirou says as he changes lanes, barely missing the car in front of him.

“He’s the spitting image of his mother , ” Akabayashi says diplomatically. 

“That he is, that he is,” Shirou says fondly. “Got her cleverness too.”

“I’m sure he does.”

“And yet, you didn’t seem particularly fond of him,” Shirou says , glancing at Akabayashi out of the corner of his eye. 

Uh oh.

“Eh. I’m—”

“Family is everything to us,” Shirou continues, far too casually to be casual. “And family loves each other. Would  _ die  _ for each other.”

Akabayashi doesn’t recall  _ his  _ family being like that,  _ either  _ of them, but he guess that, statistically, it has to happen. “Sounds like  you’re  asking for trouble.”

“No, no, no. It gives up power, we’re an unshakeable  _ unit. _ Have you heard of the bundle of sticks? Ya know, we’re stronger tied up than not?”

Akabayashi’s pretty sure that’s not how it goes. But who is he to question, maybe it is true.

“Sure.”

“Or a hydra, you cut off one head, and there turns out ot be a pissed off army behind him?”

Akabayashi has a horrible mental imagine of cutting off Izaya’s head and an army of Shiki’s tumbling out, ready to take his place. 

“I see how that could be terrifying.”

Shirou slings his car in front of some high rise in a quiet residential district. Well, as close to quiet as Tokyo gets, anyway. It’s decently close to one of the smaller subway stops and there’s a convenience shop perched not far from the entrance. 

It’s a nice place. Centrally located. Same  kind of decorations as the Orihara complex , he can tell Kyouko had a strong hand in all of it.

“Sweet digs.”

“All yours,” Shirou says, tossing him the keys. “Comes with the job.” 

“Huh.” Jobs that come with places like this and high salaries always involve killing people. Not that he minds, per se, but he’s trying to make a change in his career. Be a cleaner man.  He decided somewhere between eating a baloney sandwich out of a garbage can and then rolling the garbage can at one of his stalkers. Good times.  “And what  _ is  _ the job?”

Shirou frowns. “Shit. This is the second time I’ve forgotten to say that part first. Oh well, third time’s the charm.” Shirou sprawls on one of the nice couches. “I run one of the yakuza families in the area . Orihara-kai.” Akabayashi’s heard of it. 

He’s heard they’re small fry.

That clashes nastily with what he’s seen. 

“We’ve got the underlings, and the thugs, and a seat at our overlord organization and all that, but those are just window dressings. At our core, we’re, ah, what’d Izaya call us, I’m always forgetting.” Shirou tugs on his ear. “Oh! Facilitators!”

“And what do you facilitate?” Akabayashi says, though he’s already got a sense of what that might be.

“Oh, this and that,” Shirou says. “Power changing hands, events to fall in a certain someone’s favor, finding moles. That sort of thing.”

“Moving the Wang Triad into Tokyo.”

Shirou smiles, “Precisely. Izaya took care of that, did you know? I mean, I started it and all, but he was doing  _ such  _ a good job with communications I let him take over.”

“You made a lot of very powerful people very unhappy,” Akabayashi says, though he doesn’t particularly care. 

Shirou doesn’t look like he cares overmuch either. “We’re also the primary controller of information flows in this city. There isn’t a single informant that isn’t on our payroll, not a single homeless  person  that won’t report to us.”

“Impressive,” Akabayashi says, collapsing on the couch opposite Shirou. It’s very comfortable, has a nice bounce. “What does that leave me as?”

“Ah,” Shirou says. “See, that part of the business is,” Shirou counts on his fingers, “five people, at the moment. It’s kind of a lot, and poor Shiki is competent, but he can’t be  _ everything.” _

Shiki? 

“The kid?”

“Yeah. Not really a kid anymore, though, gotta admit.” 

“So that leaves me as…?”

Shirou makes a wiggly movement with his hand. “My right hand, I guess you could say. Coordinate deals, check on information, put the fear of god into the fearless. Heavy coordination with Shiki, but I get the feeling you’ll get along just fine.”

“That’s a pretty nebulous position, I gotta say.” Akabayashi roots around in his suit pocket, but comes up with nothing but lint.  Drats. Should have grabbed some from the car. 

Shirou leans over and extends a pack of cigarettes, “yeah. But I’m sure you’ll take to it. I find it best for each man to discover his roles than to be forced into them, you know?”

Akabayashi understands. Sort of.

“And what happens when there’s overlap? Or someone neglects somethin’?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Shirou says, waving a hand dismissively. “Kyouko or Shiki will make sure everything that needs to be done will be. You do you, they’ll fill in the gaps.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Almost too good. They’ll see how long this lasts.

“Ah. Alright. Oh, there’s one more thing. This, ah. Sonohara Anri?”

Akabayashi doesn’t tense. That would give him away. “What about her?”

“See,” Shirou spreads his hands. “God, there’s a lot to unpack here. I guess the first would be demonic possession? Yeah, let’s start with the demonic possession.”

Akabayashi takes a long drag in, and doesn’t say a word. 

“It’s called Saika,” Shirou says, “and we’ve found a buyer that wants it. Claims to know how to remove it, too, but if that doesn’t work we’ve got exorcists from three major religions standing by.”

Akabayashi blows out a stream of smoke.  “You seem to be taking all this in stride.”

“I know everything about this city,” Shirou says, “it’d be stupid to just.  _ Ignore  _ something like this because I don’t want to believe it.”

“And this…buyer. Do you know what they want it for?”

“No,” Shirou says. “I can only guess. She’s part vampire, a dhampyr, I think it’s called. But whatever it is, I think it’s better than letting it run rampant and stunt the healthy development of a young girl, don’t you think?”

“Suppose that’s fair. Kids are delicate. Lots of ways to fuck ‘em up.”

Shirou nods, “that’s good. Means you’re more likely to agree to what I’mma say next.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. It’s a real good thing you’re doing, Akabayashi, don’t get me wrong, giving a child you owe nothing the money to support herself, but listen. She’s just a kid. She needs a  _ home. _ ”

Akabayashi can see where this is going. 

“So, if you want to adopt her, you’ve got our full support of course. We’ll make sure she gets the best schooling, daycare, you name it.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then we have a loving family that would take her in and is aware of what she’s seen and is willing to work with her. A pair of Kyouko’s friends.”

Akabayashi doesn’t know what to feel. He thinks he feels nothing.

“Sounds perfect. Couldn’t want anything better for her.”

“They’re gay,” Shirou says bluntly, leaning back in his seat. “Is that gonna be a problem for you?”

“Is what?”

“Gay people. We run with all kinds, you see. And a little birdie told me that you don’t have the best track record.”

Oh. He’s felt a moment like this, before. When an assassin broke into the home of his boss and he had to decide. He made a decision then, to be better. Guess it’s more of a series of choices, isn’t it?

He can do it.

“Maybe I did in the past,” Akabayashi says, “but not anymore. I’mma changed man.”

Shirou’s eyes are bright and sharp and maybe Izaya’s isn’t as much Kyouko as Akabayashi or iginall y thought. “Yes, I thought you might be.”

Shirou stands, slapping his thighs. “Welp, I’ll leave you to settle in, get acquainted with the place. Your new bank card and new phone should be on the table, if you need anything. I’ll come pick you up tomorrow, nine sharp, for work. We can talk about arranging a regular service tomorrow if you want. But for now, concentrate on getting better. There should be chicken soup in the fridge, I read somewhere that it’s good for the invalid. And yeah, that’s it. Ring if you need anything!”

And Shirou whirls out of his new apartment as quickly as he whirled into Akabayashi’s life, leaving him with much to think about. 

 

It can’t just be a normal office building. 

It goes against everything Akabayashi knows about Shirou. 

“This is where the magic happens,” Shirou says, gesturing broadly at the empty corridor.

Akabayashi looks for the magic behind the empty receptionist desk. He doesn’t find any.

“Oh yeah,” Shirou says, looking at the desk. “I keep forgetting I need to fill that position.”

He looks speculatively at Akabayashi. 

“No.”

“I was kidding,” Shirou says lightly. Akabayashi isn’t sure about that. “But nah, follow me. Kyouko let me build a  _ secret lair. _ ”

Shirou prances into the elevator, pretty much bubbling with excitement. “Watch this,” he says as the doors close. His fingers fly as he punches a complex pattern into the elevator buttons. With a jerk, the elevator starts to descend. 

“Cool, huh?” Shirou says. “It was Izaya that suggested the pattern instead of a separate button. Said that any clues might accidentally  let people know we’re down here , if they’re observant enough.”

“Uh-huh,” Akabayashi says, not en tirely impressed with an elevator that goes  _ two ways.  _

“It was  _ such a pain _ to get all the systems set up, but I think you’ll agree that it was worth it.”

The elevator opens to a rather tasteful lobby, not entirely unlike the one further upstairs, complete with what appear to be fake plants and a palm tree wearing a santa hat.

Shiki appears out of one of the doorways. “I have several suitable candidates for the receptionist position upstairs depending on what kind of image you were looking to project.”

“Shiki,” Shirou says, exasperated. “I  _ told  _ you not to listen in on my conversations.”

Shiki lifts a single eyebrow. “Sir, with all due respect, I thought the conversation that began with ‘Shiki, go be busy somewhere else, preferably finding a hot receptionist,’ was directed at me. I now begin to see the error of my ways.”

“You’ve become so  _ sassy  _ lately,” Shirou whines, accepting the stack of papers from his hand. “Remember the days you used to cower in corners, all ‘yes, sir’ and ‘right away, sir?’”

Shiki has a very pointed non-expression on his face. It clearly says ‘Oh Shit.’

“It’s all the time around Izaya,” Shirou says, apparently oblivious to poor Shiki’s inner turmoil. “He’s given you an _insubordinate_ streak.” Shirou shuffles the papers around. “Are any of them having affairs?”

“All of them are having affairs, as per your instructions.”

“Then pick the one with the neatest handwriting. I have to give Akabayashi the grand tour.”

“Of course, sir.” Shiki disappears back into one of the rooms.

“That’s Shiki’s office,” Shirou says, sotto voce. “It didn’t used to be, he just kinda moved in.”

“Then where was he working before?”

Shirou pushes open one of the other rooms. It’s got couches and desks and more fake plants. “I was kinda envisioning a group space, you know? Where we could float ideas and you could really feel the synergy, and work as a team.”

“Oh, are there more employees than Shiki?”

“No, why?”

“Ah.”

“You can have an office too, if you want,” Shirou says dejectedly , clearly misunderstanding . But then suddenly brightens. “But you haven’t seen the coolest part!”

And he’s off again, pushing open a door and disappearing inside. 

Akabayashi cautiously pushes open the door and is greeted with simply too much sensory information for one lone, poor eye. 

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Shirou says, looking at his screens with something like fatherly pride. “And all of it recorded, sorted. There’s not a person that  _ sneezes  _ without us knowing about it.”

“It’s impressive,” Akabayashi admits, and Shirou beams. 

“Not that we don’t have people on the street, of course. We have an entire network of homeless that report back to others on our payroll. Some things just need that human touch.” 

The upper offices are the standard bullshit yakuza space. Some black leather couches, a nice shiny plaque, some microwaves tucked into a corner. Bunches of lackeys shoved into suits like it’ll lend them some form of competency.

“Gentlemen,” Shirou says, “I present to you our newest executive, Akabayashi Mizuki. He comes from us from another family, so he’s got tons of experience.” Shirou sniggers like he’s made a truly excellent joke.

“So, he above or below the fuckin’ high schooler,” one of the more daring men in the corner says. He’s the troublemaker that they keep around cause he’s willing to punch the lights out of anything that moves. Akabayashi is very familiar with him type. He used to be him, after all.

“Now, now,” Shirou says mildly. “Shiki isn’t a high schooler anymore. Hasn’t been for a few years now. And I’m sure if you had any complaints, you’d be saying them to his face, right?”

The man in the corner goes a bit pale. Interesting, he’ll have to check into that. 

“But what about us, huh?” the man in the corner says. “Why bring in more executives, have we not been loyal? Are we not enough?”

“Why, I had no idea you all felt that way,” Shirou says, looking around the room. “I thought I had been good to you all.”

Akabayashi doesn’t believe him for a goddamn second. 

So this will be his first task, huh? Kill everyone in the office, replace them all, prove his loyalty?

He can do that. 

But nobody in the office seems to be taking the other guy’s side. Nobody’s crowding around him, eager to press their grievances. 

In fact, they all seem rather  _ embarrassed.  _

“Akabayashi, show this man why I picked you over him.”

Akabayashi crushes his face in without a second thought.

 

Akabayashi’s still trying to figure out what his function is here when Shiki rolls into the synergy room and completely ruins the synergy.

“Koide is calling an all-hands meeting,” Shiki says, tapping on his phone, both thumbs. 

“Fuck,” Shirou says, scrambling up from his sprawl across a couch. “Akabayashi, get your game face on. We got some bastards to schmooze.”

“I’ve got a driver coming around now,” Shiki says. And then he approaches Akabayashi with a binder. Because of course he does. “This is basic info on everyone you’ll see in the room.”

“No offense, kid,” Akabayashi says, “I’m already gonna know everyone in that room. I’m not exactly new at this scene.”

“Nevertheless,” Shiki says, tossing it at him when Akabayashi doesn’t take it. “Might be worth a look.”

And Akabayashi’s got nothing better to do than look, because Shirou is great and the light of his life and savior and a million other amazing descriptors, but he’s not exactly excellent car company. 

“I hate this,” Shirou says, slumping in his seat. “Gotta come fucking running every time the bastard get it into his head that he’s not exactly top dog in the pecking order.”

“Isn’t he?”

“Koide? Shit man, he’s lowest of the low. Hasn’t even expanded outside of Tokyo. You know what I think this is about,” Shirou says, wagging a finger. “This is about your old family collapsing. That’s it. ‘Cause I haven’t heard a peep about anything else this could be.” 

“It’s not like they were huge either,” Akabayashi says, flipping through the binder. Miniko having an affair? Now, that’s an interesting twist, he always seemed like such a dedicated family man. ‘ _ Becomes malleable when referenced.’  _ He’s sure he does. His pretty little wife would leave his ass in an instant. 

_ “ _ Not huge numbers wise,” Shirou admits, “but did you ever see their books? That was a tidy profit they were turning. It’s prime real estate for the drug trade.”

“Wasn’t my area.”

“Koide is going to want to seize it. Won’t know what to do with it though.”

“Ah. And you come in to…?”

“We don’t,” Shirou says, fiddling with a cigarette. “We’re just the tiny, scrappy guys. Don’t know our ass from our elbows.”

 

The Koide headquarters is pretty standard fare: spacious sprawling grounds with traditional gardens, large house built to impress upon the lesser that the owner is not only richer, but has a bigger dick than god, and definitely you. 

But not Shirou. 

Shirou walks into the boardroom, Akabayashi trailing behind him like a good little puppy, like there’s nothing unusual. 

Conversation stops dead as Akabayashi takes his place behind Shirou and takes a long time to revive itself. 

Not that it’s unexpected, he tells himself. The Red Demon is an urban legend, even among the yakuza. That he would come in, docile as you please, to a board meeting, is a small miracle in itself. 

That he would walk in, bold as brass, after apparently murdering his family head, is perhaps another reason to stare. 

He wonders if they’ll try and inflict punishment. He doesn’t think so, he doesn’t think they’ll dare. Imai wasn’t part of their framework, and now there’s no one left to pressure them to overcome their fear of his reputation. Besides, no one liked Imai, anyway. There will be no blood brothers coming out of the woodwork to demand blood for blood. 

But that doesn’t quite explain the slack-jaw look of astonishment that some of the lackeys have got on their faces, and they shouldn’t know him on-sight. 

Akabayashi’s new phone vibrates in his pocket, the default ringtone reverberating through the room. It’s a lot fancier than his old model, he hasn’t gotten all of it down pat yet, like how to put it on silent mode. 

_ Shiki Haruya,  _ it says. Huh. So he  _ does  _ have a first name. 

_ Official story circulating is that you died, probably because you didn’t turn up at a hospital or at one of the three commonly used unground doctors. Thought you might want to know.  _ He can  _ feel  _ the quiet, self-satisfied smugness through the phone. Asshole. This is because he didn’t take the binder, isn’t it? Vindictive, is he?

So great, now he’s a  _ ghost  _ on top of everything else. Would have been nice to know,  _ Shiki.  _

But he doesn’t have time to think about that, because Koide sweeps into the room. 

Even if he wasn’t wearing full-traditional get-up, you could tell by the way everyone else treats him. It’s an odd combination of deference and wariness, like he’s a time-bomb waiting to explode , and the slightest offense might set him off . 

Koide is a small man, he can tell, instilling  _ fear  _ instead of  _ respect.  _ Probably has a tenuous hold on the rest of the family. Not tenuous enough that they smell it, but tenuous enough that he feels uncertain and unsafe. 

Tenuous enough that he’s too busy holding power to watch what his underlings are doing.

Does Shirou have that sort of power, or is it mere coincidence? 

No, nothing is ever that convenient. It has to be Shirou. Hope that strategy doesn’t come back to bite him in the ass. Being under a weak leader offers you freedom, sure. What it doesn’t offer is protection. 

But what does he know, perhaps this is the best option of a bad lot. Of course, it would be best if they could have a strong leader sworn to secrecy. Maybe he’s angling for something like that, someone to put up there. Maybe Shiki?

No, not Shiki. He’s loyal and competent, but he’s gonna go where that demon child points, and not a step further. 

Koide starts the meeting with: “On the Imai-kai dismantling. Tell me what you know.”

Oh fuck. This ought to be good. 

 

“Whatcha think?”

“Of what, Koide himself or the whole shebang?”

Shirou hums. “Both.”

“Koide’s unimpressive,” Akabayashi says, “which I’m guessing was the point?”

“An unintended consequence.” Shirou says, crossing his legs. If Akabayashi didn’t know better, he’d say the move was defensive. “He was  _ supposed  _ to be succeeded by someone else, but they had a rather unfortunate heart attack.”

“That right?”

Shirou glances at him, eyes suddenly sharp. Too sharp. “Yeah. Happened at my home too. Near the koi pond outback, don’t know if you’ve seen it. Might have lived, but he cracked his head on the stones.”

“Rough.”

Shirou’s face flickers again, an emotion Akabayashi’s very familiar with. Undiluted, unadulterated  _ rage.  _ “Yeah.”

The emotions are clearly still raw enough that Akabayashi wants absolutely nothing to do with it. If it comes out, it’ll come out with time, not insistence. 

“Mind if we make a stop before heading home?” Shirou says, and Akabayashi gets the impression he’s used to talking with Shiki, home being the same place for them. “It’ll be quick.”

“It’s no problem to me,” Akabayashi says, wondering what would happen if he  _ did  _ have a problem with it. Probably nothing. He can’t really image Shirou swinging around to drop him off before heading out on business like  some sort of  carpool. Maybe he’d have to walk all the way back to Tokyo. 

They stop at the edge of Tokyo proper, where there are big houses  _ just  _ close enough to almost justify what has to be an atrocious commute. Not unlike the Orihara complex, now that he thinks about it, but  that’s clear on the other side of the city. 

They roll up to a decent sized house. Not as big as the Orihara’s and definitely not as big as the Koide, but large enough to show that they’re doing well for themselves. 

“Who lives here?” 

Shirou gives him a look. “Ah, I forget you’re not Shiki.  No, it’s a compliment!  Koide’s left hand. Wasn’t at the meeting today, but wants to talk.” Shirou rolls his eyes. “He’s basically got Koide by the balls, and has everyone else by the dick by proxy.” 

“Shouldn’t he have been at the meeting, then?”

Shirou waves a dismissive hand. “Theoretically, yes. In reality, probably thought it wasn’t worth his time. No offense, but your old family wasn’t exactly a fallen colossus or anything.”

Fair. 

Shirou’s shoes clack as he makes his way up the front lawn, and his hands are tucked in his pockets. 

“He must be pretty confident,” Akabayashi says, as Shirou rings the bell. “Doing work out of his home.”

Shirou smiles tightly. “We all have to learn from our mistakes.”

There’s a pattering of small feet on the other side of the door, before heavier footsteps sweep them away. 

But before long, the door opens. 

“Furuta,” Shirou says, with a small bow. “This is my new employee, Akabayashi.”

“What, did that high schooler graduate, or something?” Furuta barks in lieu of a greeting. 

The house is tidy and well-kept, and Akabayashi toes off his shoes. “He did. I’ll pass along your congratulations.”

Furuta makes a sound in his throat, but leads them further into his house, into a richly paneled office dominated by a big desk. 

There’s one chair. Akabayashi lets S h irou settle into it, and stands behind it, arms behind his back. And for a moment, he’s transported back to his old life, to being nothing more than the hired goon. But it’s easy enough to shake himself out of it. It’s never been him. Not really. 

“I suppose you talked about the Imai fall,” Furuta says, pulling out a carton of cigarettes. He doesn’t offer one to Shirou, but clearly expects him to supply the lighter. Shirou does without comment. 

“We did.”

“And who volunteered to pick up their drug trade?”

“Heiji. It makes sense for them to fill the void, their territory used to border theirs. Would just be able to,” Shirou makes a swooping motion with his hand, “scoop it right up.” 

“I want you to take it,” Furuta says, folding his hands in front of him. 

Shirou laughs. “I dunno, we’re clear on the other side of the city and—”

“Heiji is getting too powerful,” Furuta says, brushing away an invisible dust mote from his desk. “I think your group would be better suited to take it.”

“We don’t have the resources to take that area,” Shirou lies, trying to sound concerned. He’s not a very good actor, but Furuta expected that answer too much to notice. “Everyone’s competing for it.”

“That sounds a lot like your concern,” Furuta says, dismissive. But his eyes say he’s pleased. 

“Sir—” Shirou starts.

“Don’t argue, just  _ do it,”  _ Furuta snaps, because he has power and he’s not afraid to use it. “You know what will happen if you don’t.”

And because Shirou is Shirou, Shirou says, “what will happen?”

Akabayashi doesn’t put his face in his hands, but only just. It would be  _ so easy  _ to scoop up that little piece of land, they could have it by the end of the week. Akabayashi knows. Shiki has been going over their resources with him. 

Furuta’s smile is cruel. “Well. That pretty little family of yours. They seem pretty comfortable.” If Akabayashi was Furuta, he would have shut up then and there and begged for apology. But Furuta is caught up in his own power trip and too busy to notice the warning signs. 

“I’ll do it,” Shirou says, voice low.

“Your wife is lovely, but what about your boy?” Furuta says. “He’d—”

Akabayashi never find out what Izaya would do, because Shirou reaches over the desk and hauls Furuta across it, dropping him graceless on the floor. 

And then he sets in on his face , arm a merciless piston. 

Furuta never stood a chance. His face is bloody in seconds, unrecognizable in moments. 

Shirou’s hair is flying every which way, his face a mask of pure rage. He raises a fist to strike , but Akabayashi catches it . The resistance is strong, and Shirou yanks his arm out of Akabayashi’s hold. 

But he does stop, standing up and surveying his handiwork.

“Well,” he says, adjusting his tie with a bloody hand. “Looks like another executive met an untimely heart attack. Take care of this, would you, Akabayashi? I’ll see you at dinner. ”

And apparently Shirou is perfectly content to let Akabayashi walk back to Tokyo, leaving him with a corpse and a daughter and a wife to explain it to.

 

The black car pulls up just as the hearse pulls away, and for a second, Akabayashi has the insane thought that this one might be for him. 

Then Shiki steps out, tugging his suit into place. He looks around, taking in the dry-eyed wife clutching the sobbing daughter. 

“I’m sorry to hear of your loss,” he says, managing to sound perfectly sincere. Maybe he even is. The wife gives a stiff nod, her eyes full of contempt. “Has my colleague discussed your relocation options with you?”

No. What relocation options? Is he allowed to  _ do  _ that? Quite possibly, he just had the contacts to have a body discreetly taken away and false medical reports filed all from his phone, why wouldn’t he be able to relocate a family of two. 

The wife shakes her head no. 

“Well,” Shiki says, reaching into his coat. “Why don’t we discuss them inside?”

Shiki even manages to get Hiyori— that’s her name, why didn’t he know that— to provide them tea as they discuss the terms of their hush money. Like they’re an official business or something. Maybe the tea is poisoned!

No. Just normal tea. Drats. 

“We’ll of course, pay for Aimi’s schooling until she reaches college,” Shiki says, flipping through the contract. “And supplement your late husband’s retirement funds to suit your cost of living. But I can’t stress enough how important it is for you to cut off contact with people involved in the business. For your own safety.”

“Who’s to say you won’t turn on us yourselves?” Hiyori says. 

“Unfortunately, I have nothing to reassure you but my own word,” Shiki says, and he sounds so smooth, so earnest. “But I swear on my mother’s grave that nothing will happen to you or your daughter.”

He’s  _ good.  _

Hiyori nods, completely taken in, signing the papers with a flourish. 

“A team of movers will be here in two hours. I would advise packing lightly, but you are of course, free to bring what you wish. The password will be quesadilla, don’t let anyone in without that password.” Shiki stands to leave, and Akabayashi follows suit. “I hope you have a peaceful life.”

Shiki leads the way silently to the car, where he sits, prim as you please.

“Shirou sent you?”

Shiki shakes his head. “No, Kyouko. She’s the one that arranged for the move. Would have come here herself, but she’s a bit busy with other things ahead of the family dinner.”

Akabayashi blinks. So, they’re just going to acknowledge Shirou killed a man over, what? Standard threats? And move on?

Fine. 

That’s fine. 

“Family dinner?” Akabayashi says instead of  _ is our boss completely off the rails insane?  _

_ “ _ Every third Thursday of the month,” Shiki confirms. “Really, I think it’s just a way for Kyouko to get to the fancy restaurants she likes, we always eat dinner together.” Shiki chances a look at Akabayashi. “Well, most of us.”

“Ah. Suppose there’s anything you can warn me of this time, perhaps  _ before  _ I go in?”

Shiki smirks, a small one like he just can’t help himself. “Hmm. Well, you’ve already met Izaya, but have you met the twins?”

“No?”

Shiki’s smirk grows. 

Akabayashi has a  _ bad feeling.  _

Which turns out to be false because the twins are about three and they’re  _ adorable.  _

“Your hair is pretty,” one of them tells him.

“I found a  _ spoon,”  _ the other says. 

“Thank you,” he says, accepting the spoon and compliment with good grace. 

Shiki is scowling at him, but seems distracted by Izaya, sitting next to him. Izaya is telling him a story of some sort, hands big. 

“Glad to see you could make it, Akabayashi,” Kyouko says, smiling at him warmly as he plays with her children. 

“Glad to be able to come,” Akabayashi says honestly. 

“It feels like you should know more about baseball before you start a gambling ring,” Shiki says. 

Izaya shrugs. “I’ve been doing okay so far.”

“What’s this about a gambling ring?” Kyouko asks, not sounding terribly concerned. 

“Izaya started one,” Shirou says excitedly. “Isn’t that great? He’s so proactive!”

“Dad!” 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I just can’t help checking in on how you’re doing.”

“You promised!” Izaya whines.

“I know, I know, I’ll try harder, I promise.”

Dinner is a bit chaotic, but it’s fine. He doesn’t even have to really talk to Izaya, as wrapped up as he is with Shiki. And that suits him fine.

That is, until Shirou leans over to him during desert.

“You know, there’s a favor I’d like from you,” he says casually. 

“Yeah?”

“Those two,” he says, gesturing at Izaya and Shiki, “no combat experience.”

“Oh yeah?” Akabayashi says, recognizing a command when he hears one. 

“Fix that.”

 

As far as rooms go, it’s not a bad one. The mats provide a bit of bounce under his bare feet. It’s empty, and the light slants inside in such a way that makes it seem large and airy. 

Two pairs of eyes blink up at him. 

They’re uncannily similar, in some ways. They’re both full of cunning and guile, for one. They’re both trying to strip him to the bone and read his guts like oracle bones , for another. 

But one stares up at him with unconcealed suspicion. Shiki’s teeth might as well be barred, he’s so close to snarling at him. He’s using his body to try and block Izaya, who stares at him with curiosity and amusement and a vague sense of superiority. 

He seems secure in the knowledge that Shiki will protect him, come what may.

Time to shake that knowledge.

Shiki almost has his hand up in time to catch Akabayashi’s cane, but Akabayashi’s faster and older and more experience and it cracks him against the ribs.

Hard.

He doesn’t go down, but he does give a pained  _ oof  _ and sways heavily on his feet.

Which Akabayashi promptly sweeps out from under him. 

Shiki hits the floor awkwardly and hard, landing on an arm. 

He tries to  lunge for Akabayashi’s feet , but changes his mind when Akabayashi raises his cane again,  rising instead to his feet to stand in front of Izaya.

This time the cane hits him across the shoulder, and he falls to the floor with a dull thump.

Akabayashi has learned too. 

He doesn’t take moment to let Shiki get up, instead placing a foot on his back. Shiki rages like a rabid dog as Akabayashi twirls his cane to strike—

Empty air.

Izaya dances away, motion too large, but graceful all the same.

He doesn’t see the return, too smug in his own victory, and it catches him on the back.

He cries out, joining his g uar d dog on the floor. 

The sword slides out of Akabay a shi’s cane with a smooth motion, and he touches the point to the back of Izaya’s neck. 

“I could kill you now,” Akabayashi says. “You know that?”

“Yes,” Shiki says. 

“Shhh, this lesson isn’t for you.” He tilts his head, considering. “Well, perhaps it is. Perhaps it’s for both of you.”

Akabayashi balances on Shiki’s back for a moment before stepping off. Shiki scrambles to his knees, still trying beyond hope to put himself between Akabayashi and Izaya.

It’s cute, in a way. Adorable, really. His blind, pathetic loyalty to someone that didn’t lift a finger to try and defend himself or Shiki. 

Izaya will have to learn one day that he doesn’t  _ want  _ blind obe dience in a relationship. But he is young yet, and stupid. 

But at least neither of them ask why or beg.

Actually. They should be, sparing for time. They should be trying to get him to talk.

“Well?” Akabayashi says. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m doing this?”

“Is there a point?” Shiki says, and he’s a good dog, his eyes looking for exits, lingering on the window. Good boy, clever boy.

“There’s always a point.”

He thinks he can see Shiki’s signals, trying to gesture Izaya subtly to the window.

“And before you try and jump out a bullet-proof window, which I know I would find amusing, you might want to know that I’m to be your martial arts instructor.”

Both Shiki and Izaya freeze.

“I’m not a kind instructor,” Akabayashi says. “But you will learn. Before now, you glanced by on luck, nothing but.”

He looks them over. Neither of them are buil t like he is. They’re both slim, tiny twigs. Izaya promises to be like his mother, he thinks. He’ll have to learn a weapon to stand any chance aga inst  the thugs he encounters.

But Shiki. 

Shiki fights to protect Izaya like he’d be willing to use his teeth to rip out throats and his body to protect from stubbed toes. 

“First,” Akabayashi says, “you both need muscle. Push ups until you drop. Then again. And ag ai n. And ag ai n. Until your arms won’t pick you up anymore. Begin.”

Izaya stares at him. 

“Was I in someway unclear, little lordling?” Akabayashi says in his sweetest, kindest voice. 

“My father won’t allow this,” he says, but he sounds uncertain. “You can’t treat me like this.”

“This was his idea,” Akabayashi says mildly, clanking his cane against the floor. “Pushups. Now.”

“You can’t hit me. You can’t  _ do  _ this—”

Akabayashi swings his cane.

He makes sure to hit Shiki in the same place he did before. It might hurt business relations, but he has faith that Shiki can see past it to the greater good. 

Or not. Oops. 

“Have you heard of a whipping boy, Izaya?” Akabayashi says, crouching so he can look Izaya in the eye. “Of course you have. Someone to take your place when punishment must be meted. Now, I’m sure Shiki here is happy to take your place, he’s utterly devoted to you. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Izaya cocks his head, and Akabayashi sees understanding start to bloom.

“Shiki’s happy to take it for you. But what if Shiki’s not there, hmm? What if he gets himself killed?” Akabayashi drops his voice lower, just in case. “Do you want to see Shiki get hurt?”

And there it is, just for a moment, a flicker. So the kid does care, doesn’t he? Maybe like one of his toys, he doesn’t want to see it broken. Maybe it’s something genuine, no matter how much Akabayashi doubts it. 

Louder he says: “pushups. Until you drop.”

 

Shiki, wonderfully, does not seem to hold his nightly beatings against him  ‘ cause he’s not a little  _ bitch.  _

“I have some reports that Shirou wanted you to look at,” he says every morning when Akabayashi rolls in, moving perhaps a little more stiffly than he had yesterday. 

“Does Shirou actually hand pick these out?” Akabayashi says, accepting his stack. Shirou?  _ Foresight? Planning?  _ Don’t make him laugh.

“No, Kyouko and I think it’s what he might fixate on today.”

“Shirou doesn’t really seem like a man that can be predicted.”

“No,” Shiki agrees. “But perhaps controlled?”

“I didn’t get that impression, either.”

“Neither did I, but Kyouko is terrifying.”

Oooh, that might do it. 

“That she is, that she is.”

“Hey, Shirou told me to give this to you, said you’d know what to do with it.”

What Shiki hands him is a napkin with a phone number and a scrawled doodle of a gun. 

Akabayashi hates that he  _ does.  _

 

Shiki even  _ babysits  _ him on his first official mission. Isn’t that cute, they call them  _ missions.  _

The building is swanky, black tile floors, marble pillars. There’s even a fountain burbling in the middle of the lobby, with little fishes swimming in the pool.

Shiki walks up to the receptionist, which is against everything Akabayashi thought he knew about how the yakuza operated. “We’re here to see Mr. Otonari,” he says politely, flashing a charming grin. 

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist says, and she actually does sound regretful. “But Mr. Otonari is busy, at the moment.”

“He should be expecting us,” Shiki says, and he sounds so ridiculously confident Akabayashi wonders if Shiki really did phone in an appointment to scare the wits out of some hapless banker. “If you could just point me in the direction of his office.”

“Of course,” she says, and the next thing Akabayashi knows, they’re in an elevator set straight to the top. 

“Now do you see why you had to be babysat?”

“Sure,” Akabayashi says. “I don’t think I’m gonna be doing things your way, though.”

“We’ll see,” Shiki says, like an asshole. The doors  _ ding  _ open and Shiki walks out with unerring confidence. It’s not the swagger he would have expected from a yakuza exec. It’s not the ‘I’m here and you can’t make me leave’ it’s more ‘I belong here’ and eyes land on Shiki and slide right off of him.

They linger on Akabayashi, though. It can’t be helped, he’s only got one eye. It tends to attract attention.

Shiki opens the door to the office marked ‘Otonari Eichi’ with no hesitation. 

“Mr. Otonari?” he says, settling into one of the two chair arranged in front of a large, mahogany desk. The man behind it is one of the business alpha-male types that could have easily found their way on the darker path, if they had been born into less money or opportunities. He emanates power that makes others attend to him, even if they don’t know why. “I’m Shiki Haruya. You remember me from our initial meeting, of course.”

“I don’t,” Otonari says bluntly, which is a cheap jab Akabayashi saw coming a mile away. “What the hell are you doing in my office? I can call security, you know.”

“This is my colleague, Akabayashi  Mizuki ,” Shiki continues without missing a beat, easily letting Akabayashi know his job. “We represent the Orihara-kai, which you remember, of course. You bought information from us on your competitors.”

“I would never do that,” Otonari says, mock outrage making his voice warble. 

“Of course. Just as you wouldn’t have the Orihara-kai have the head of the Kitani Bank killed,” Shiki says, sounding bored. “I’m here to remind you of the terms of your agreement with us.”

“I have no—”

“Whether you have any idea of it or not,” Shiki says, “it won’t stop retaliation if you do not comply with our terms. I ask you to recall that we had Kitani Kyoji killed. We follow through on our promises.”

“I have been in full compliance with your terms,” Otonari hisses, face turning red with a deadly combination of fear and anger. 

“If you recall,” Shiki says, folding his hands in front of him, “of our terms was that this bank would fund the Wang Triad, under their various and sundry names, up to or exactly one hundred million yen.”

“Well, I don’t exactly control who or who isn’t denied their loans.”

“You do,” Shiki says, “because you control the bank. And what’s more, you knew you were violating your terms as you recently hired a bodyguard to walk your daughter to and from school.”

“As a bank executive, you can’t be too careful—”

“And one for your wife as well. She’s having an affair with hers, but I suspect you already knew that. You’ve also started transferring personal assets abroad. For what purpose, I wonder?”

“A man can’t be too careful.”

“Indeed,” Shiki says, reaching into his jacket pocket, pulling out an envelope. “Which is why I hope you understand the precautions we’ve taken.”

Otonari goes pale, and opens the envelope with shaking fingers. It’s a piece of lined paper, and a single photograph. 

It’s then that there’s a polite knock on the door. 

That would be security, bastard probably has a button under his desk. 

Ah, the eternal question, deal with security in the office, or intimidate them outside. But he doesn’t get to decide, security enters the office like those American police in the movies: bold, brass, over confident. 

Shiki lifts an eyebrow, telling him clearly to  _ take care of it.  _ But doesn’t stand up himself. Charming. 

Thankfully, they close the door behind them, and Akabayashi doesn’t feel at all bad about swinging his cane into the crotch of the first, because to leave something open is to ask for invitation. He finishes him off with a solid fist to the temple and moves to the second one. 

He’s as easy as the first. These guys are all impressive muscle and no idea how to apply it. He falls heavily at Akabayashi’s feet. 

There’s helpless fear in Otonari’s eyes and a spark of curiosity in Shiki’s. 

Interesting. 

“I’ll wait outside,” Akabayashi says, hefting his cane as a clear warning against pressing anymore security summoning buttons. 

He leans against the heavy-wooden door and contemplates lighting up, but it’s such a nice building that he doesn’t want to ruin the atmosphere. Or draw too much attention to himself and summon more meatheads for him to punch.  Not that he couldn’t, but he’d prefer not to have to fight his way out of here. Seems to go against the new company policy. 

He wonders if Shirou’s watching. Considers sending out a small wave, just in case, but ultimately decides against it. 

It’s a shame, out here he doesn’t get to see Shiki work. Boy obviously took to this job like a shark in a tank full of fish. 

Eventually, though, there’s a tug on the door handle and the sound of a voice right on the other side of the door.

“I hope this doesn’t affect our future business relations, Mr. Otonari. We look forward to working with you in the future.”

Akabayashi stands aside to let Shiki out. And Shiki leaves the office building as unobtrusively as he came. 

“One hundred million yen,” Akabayashi says to himself as the elevator whooshes smoothly down. 

“Yup,” Shiki says. 

“Wow.”

“I know.”

“We should’ve broken his nose,” Akabayashi says.

“Nah, would’ve scared the secretary under his desk.”

“Oh, well. We can’t have  _ that. _ ”

 

“Ya wanna see something fun?” Shirou’s leaning forward, eyes twinkling.

“Hell yeah.”

Shirou giggles and dives back under his desk, emerging with a thick file.

“We have to keep it on paper, ‘cause he has all the admin passwords,” Shirou says gleefully, “but Kyouko and I have made Shiki’s Burn Book.”

“Burn Book?”

“You know, all his ex’s and one night stands. That’s what the kids are calling it these days.”

It is not what the kids are calling it these days. It has never been what the kids are calling it.

“Ah.”

Shirou hands it over.

It’s  _ hefty.  _

“How old did you say this kid was?” He says, mostly to himself. Akabayashi flips through the first few pages. It’s an impressive array of girls, mostly high schoolers, sprinkled with an occasional woman that should have been far out of his league and several years older. Around the middle he starts to get more adventurous, peppering in the odd boy.

He’s not even close to the end when the dates start getting more recent, maybe a month before A k abayashi joined the family. 

“See, that’s the thing,” Shirou says in That Tone. The Tone that says this was all a plan and he’s gearing up for the conclusion, the line he’s about to sell. He normally wouldn’t bother buttering Akabayashi up, he hardly waits until he’s awake to start in on his next idea. 

It must be Something, then.

“Shiki’s twenty next week,” Shirou says, casually from the desk.

“Is that right?” 

Akabayashi knows. Everyone knows. Because  _ Izaya  _ knows and his temper tantrums are bordering on insane.

“So, you see, our Shiki is a bit of a, what’s the word I’m looking for?”

“Massive slut?”

“No.”

“Manwhore?”

“No. Something more proper.”

“Rent boy?”

“N—Aren’t those paid?”

“Are you saying he’s worse than a prostitute?”

“No, but I am saying that I’d like you to introduce him to a few.”

Akabayashi doesn’t inhale his cigarette, but it’s a close thing. 

“You want me to—”

“Bring him to a brothel.” Shirou’s all nervous energy now, rummaging around in his coat. “It’s for the best, really. He makes us all so worried. We have a place that knows to expect you and—”

Shirou stops and catches the look on Akabayashi’s face.

“Oh, come on. We’re not asking you to sleep with him. Just, take him there. Show him around. I’m sure he can figure out what to do from there.”

There’s a slow beat. One. Two. 

“I’d take him, but I’m his boss, you know? Creates tension he might not want. ‘Sides, then he’ll  _ know  _ it was us.”

“You mean you think for a moment that he won’t know?”

“Nah,” Shirou pulls out a lighter. “He might. He might think you’re that much of an unknown quantity. Hard to say with him.”

Akabayashi doubts that Shiki’s unaware of the long fingers of the Orihara family, especially after being one of them for years. 

He changes tack. 

“I beat the shit out of him every other night. We don’t have that sort of relationship” Akabayashi says. “It’d be odd, not to say the least.”

“Oh, come on,” Shirou says, “he treats you fine in the office, he’s knows what’s necessary.” 

“And yet…”

“It’s not for another week yet,” Shirou whines. “Kyouko says it’ll be  _ fine. _ ”

“Does she now?”

“Just. Please, think about it, alright?”

 

Shiki hits the wooden floors with a  _ crack  _ that makes Akabayashi’s shoulders twinge in sympathy.

“Izaya, while I admire your ferocity,” Akabayashi says mildly, “please don’t break your sparring partner.”

“Sorry,” Izaya says to Akabayashi, leaving Shiki to struggle to his feet. To his credit, he doesn’t wince. 

Much. 

Poor bastard. 

“Shiki, take five,” Akabayashi says, taking off his suit jacket. “You’re going too easy on him.”

Shiki limps off without saying a damn word, because it’s fucking  _ true.  _ And he’s not doing Izaya any favors, but it’d probably be too damn much to ask someone who’s been programmed to fear his charge getting a paper cut to strike him. 

But Izaya. 

Izaya has no such qualms. 

It'd be irritating if it seemed to affect Shiki even a little, but the best indicator of Shiki’s relationship status isn't anything Shiki does—

It's Izaya and his teenage hormone fueled  _ rage.  _

Izaya’s fighting style isn't like Akabayashi’s, not even a little. Well, a little because he stood there and taught the punk literally everything he knows. But where Akabayashi uses his opponent’s own force to land devastating blows, Izaya prefers to use it to trip them up, long enough to shimmy away. 

Except.

Except when Shiki’s got himself a new beau. 

“Alright, kid. Square up.”

Izaya’s fast, ducking under Akabayashi’s arm to land an uppercut to his stomach. Akabayashi twists, letting the force glance off and brings his right arm up to land a blow to Izaya’s unprotected temple. But Izaya’s already gone, ducking to the left and lunging forward, something sharp and glittering—

The knife goes skittering as Akabayashi brings his other hand up, sharp. But Izaya’s gone before he can land a counter strike. Smart lad, Akabayashi could crush his tiny frame. 

“Izaya. What have I said about live knives in the sparring room?”

“To bring them to your attention. And I did, didn’t I?”

Something needs to be done. 

 

On Shiki’s twentieth birthday, Akabayashi finally does the responsible thing and teaches Shiki about the wonderful world of brothels. 

“Do you know a good brothel?” Akabayashi says, breezing into Shirou’s office, where’s he’s very hard at work playing solitaire, switching over to a security feed when the door opens. 

“Not service-wise,” Shirou says. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Akabayashi agrees. 

“But I do know one that I can’t get their client list,” Shirou says. “They’ll take very good care of Shiki there, I think.”

“How soon can we get him in?”

“Tonight,” Shirou says, tapping a few keys. “Kyouko said you’d come around and told me to tell you ‘Thanks, maybe this will keep the animal at bay.’” Shirou considers. “I’m not really sure I’d call Shiki an animal though, from what I’ve seen he tends to treat his ladies pretty good.”

Sometimes, he’s so damn clueless, it hurts.

“And let me know if he chooses a girl that looks like Kyouko,” Shirou says mildly, like he couldn’t have this information as soon as Shiki looked at something with lustful intent. 

God, he’s so clueless sometimes. 

 

Izaya is in a foul mood.

No, that’s not quite it, is it? Because hell is not simply hot, and lighting is not simply bright, and Izaya is bringing  _ both  _ in  _ spades.  _

“I’m perfectly calm,” Izaya says in icy, icy tones. 

“Izaya,” Shiki says, tone level. Far more level that Akabayashi’s would be that’s for damn certain.  “You knew this was coming. I can’t live with your parents forever.”

“I’m not upset,” Izaya says, clearly upset.

Akabayashi’s pretty sure other people don’t have to deal with domestic rows in their workplaces. He’s just really special.

“We’ll still see each other every day,” Shiki says, which is the goddamn truth. And Akabayashi’s pretty sure that other people don’t have fucking  _ middle schoolers  _ sitting in their organized crime office plotting the moves of  _ other  _ organized crime families everyday after school, but you know. He’s not the damn parent.

Izaya doesn’t look mollified. “I  _ said _ I wasn’t upset. I don’t  _ care  _ if I see you everyday, don’t you get it?”

“You can come visit me, if you’d like,” Shiki tries, because he’s so fucking far gone and has the patience of three saints and possibly doesn’t know the danger he’s walked into.

Izaya ponders, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Shiki finally seems to realize the implication of his words.

God, this is better than cinema.

“Within reason,” Shiki hastily tacks on, but it’s far too late. There’s a light in Izaya’s eye that wasn’t there before, that Shiki’s bought with possibly all of the privacy he had.

“Oh, of course,” Izaya says, tapping at his phone with renewed enthusiasm. 

 

Shiki hasn’t been a child the entire time Akabayashi has known him, but he comes into his own after his twentieth birthday. 

He’s in the office each day before even Akabayashi is, tapping on his laptop and sipping a mug of truly offensive coffee. He always manages to look put together and neat, even today, when Akabayashi  _ knows  _ Shiki was up till four, infiltrating an exotic animal fighting ring to schmooze the wealthy and insane. 

Akabayashi would know. He was there, and he feels like death. 

“How are you always up so goddamn early?” Akabayashi grumbles, deciding today is the day to chance stealing some of Shiki’s precious coffee. Shiki magnanimously doesn’t murder him for pouring a cup, but he does spare precious seconds to glare.

“Practice,” Shiki says, launching into a flurry of typing. 

“Youth,” Akabayashi counters. “Wait until you reach my age, then all the  _ practice _ in the world won’t make a difference.”

Shiki’s still typing away at his laptop like a man possessed, not even making a crack about how immature Akabayashi is. Maybe he’s broken. Maybe he’s a clone.

“What’s got your ass on fire, I didn’t receive any alerts.”

“Kyouko sent me a message, Izaya should be waltzing in any moment,” Shiki says. “There are things I need to do before he walks in.”

“In my day,” Akabayashi says, “parents wanted their children in school, not actively encouraging them to skip it for criminal activity.”

Not that he wants Izaya in school if Izaya doesn’t want to be there. 

“What are you talking about,” Shiki says mildly, “we’re a financial planning company, haven’t you read the business cards?”

Akabayashi shuffles over to where Shiki’s set up on one of the leather couches, a leather beanbag under his feet. “Of course, of course. Well, it’s good that he comes here to boss you around instead of going and setting the school on fire, at least. What activities have you got planned for him today?”

Shiki rubs his eyes. “You think I can control what Izaya does?”

“You have a point.”

It’s then that the three-tone chime sounds, and Shiki stands, tugging and straightening his suit. Akabayashi doesn’t think he realizes what he’s doing.

“You look  _ fine,”  _ Akabayashi says, only a little mockingly. “Very sharp. Like a shadow given form.”

“Thank you,” Shiki says, in that special tone of his that says,  _ shut up.  _ It’s amazing he used to get laid before he found prostitutes. 

But then Izaya floats into the room.

Izaya brings out all the best and worst in Shiki. He’s sharper when Izaya’s around, a shadowy presence right behind his shoulder, ready to defend or attack. It’s in his posture, in his eyes. Shiki’s usually pretty mild, but with Izaya, he’ll rip out your throat with his teeth if necessary. 

That’s why Shirou likes to call Shiki Izaya’s pet dog sometimes, when it’s very late and they’re very drunk. But Akabayashi thinks Shiki’s more like a crow perched on Izaya’s shoulder. Watching. Waiting. But will still rip out your eyes if displeased. 

“Izaya,” Akabayashi greets, “out looking for trouble already?”

“I had an  _ idea,”  _ Izaya cackles, eyes on fire, stumbling towards the monitoring room. 

Shiki stands to follow without a second thought. “What sort of idea?”

“The good kind. The only kind I have.”

Shiki’s retort is cut off by the closing door, but Akabayashi already has a sense of what it would be. Something dry, but not caustic, because Izaya is his favorite person in the entire world. 

Idiots. 

 

Akabayashi remembers a lot of things. A lot of very unnecessary things. When he lost his first tooth, when he decided his hair  _ had  _ to be red. He remembers a lot of important things. His first tattoo. Joining his first family. Sayaka. 

Akabayashi will forever remember That Day in horrifying detail.

It was the second Thursday of the month, because they were having Family Dinner that night at some swanky joint that Kyouko loved and Shirou loved because Kyouko loved it. It would be the last one they would have for a while.

Izaya is fourteen and Shiki’s been out of the house long enough that he’s almost fifteen and he’s a  _ monster.  _

And usually Shiki’s there to contain him, but he wasn’t because he was off making nice with some group, the Wang Triad. Try and remind them that the Orihara-kai does intend the move to benefit them too. 

But Izaya’s still in the office, now just more  _ annoying.  _

He remembers the basement was unseasonably hot because the air conditioning was shot and apparently having a million fucking screens on all the damn time means it gets real hot real damn fast, and apparently it’s hard to get a trustworthy guy to fix your stupid secret bat-cave’s AC.

“I’m  _ hungry, _ ” Izaya whines, tapping at his laptop despondently. 

Akabayashi failed to realize how much of Shiki’s damn job was babysitting Izaya. Oh, he knew that it was  _ most  _ of it, but how much mood regulation went into it completely slipped him by.

Until now. 

“There’s instant ramen in the staff room,” Shirou says levelly, because his son is the light of his life, and can do no wrong, but the heat is cloying and Izaya is getting to even him. “If you can’t hold it out until dinner.”

Izaya shifts in his seat, slumping. “The Saza contact isn’t replying to my messages anymore.”

“Have Shiki—” Shirou starts. “Well, see if you can sift around, see why.”

“Yeah,” Izaya agrees, but doesn’t move. Not because he’s particularly lazy, he’s not, much to Akabayashi’s shock. 

But because the room full of computers is so astronomically hot that no one wants to get within spitting distance of it.

If Shiki were there, he would have gone in. He would have done anything for Izaya. Then they would have known that the Saza contact was dead. Then flags would have been raised, and it would have been  _ different.  _

But no one goes to check, and Akabayashi will forever kick himself for not doing it himself. Because he should have  _ known.  _ He  _ knew  _ that the Saza weren’t happy with the Wang Triad infringing on their territory. And he  _ knew  _ that the Wang Triad had been in talks with Saza to try some sort of peace treaty so they could both occupy the space, and he knew that the Orihara-kai had moved the Wang Triad to Tokyo. 

But the room was hot and he was more concerned with the sweat trickling down his back then he was with the inner workings of the Tokyo underbelly. 

“Can’t we move to the upstairs offices?” 

Shirou’s head thunks against the desk and points a finger at Akabayashi. “This is why I pay you the big bucks.” But then he checks his watch and sighs. “But we might as well just head over to the restaurant at this point.”

Izaya perks up. “Did Shiki say he’d be able to make it?” He’s probably hoping to go home with Shiki after. Word is that he’s firmly staked out Shiki’s guest room as a second home. Even has spare clothes and a toothbrush and everything. 

“You know better than I do.” Izaya deflates again.

Poor besotted bastard. Shiki, that is. Nothing good can come from being Izaya’s toy. 

They pile into the car, with blessed, blessed AC. 

No car ride is ever really quiet with Shirou  _ and  _ Izaya. 

And this one certainly isn’t. 

And for all the details of that day, Akabayashi can’t remember what they talked about. Izaya probably knows. Izaya probably knows with horrifying clarity. 

“Here we are,” Shirou says, rubbing his hands. The restaurant itself is a classy building that doesn’t draw too much attention to itself, but manages to exclude class and wealth anyway. Much like Kyouko herself. 

Shirou opens the door, stepping out, holding it open for Izaya. 

_ Bang! Bang! _

Shirou collapses back, landing on Izaya’s lap. 

Izaya stares. His hands held up, clearly uncertain, lost. 

Blood starts to damped the front of Shirou’s suit, Izaya’s pants. Akabayashi opens his own door, swinging his gun were it’s holstered at the small of his back. 

It’s easy to pick out the shooter, he’s still got his gun up, taking aim. Maybe going for the heir in a double hit. 

Akabayashi squeezes out two shots, and watches the man fall, before ducking back into the car. 

Izaya is still staring at Shirou, unconscious across his legs, head lolling limply. 

Izaya looks at him, and Akabayashi can’t believe he ever forgot that Izaya is nothing but a  _ child.  _ His eyes are lost and begging Akabayashi to do something, anything. 

Akabayashi hauls Shirou further into the car so that his legs aren’t dangling out of the vehicle and reaches over to slam the door closed. 

Izaya watches it all with dead, red eyes. 

Akabayashi pounds on the glass and the driver takes off. 

“Put pressure on the wounds,” Akabayashi barks, and Izaya startles, but obediently presses down on where the blood seems to be stemming. 

Akabayashi doesn’t mention the tears streaming down Izaya’s face as he pulls out his phone and makes some calls. 

 

Izaya is a sickly sort of green underneath the harsh fluorescent light. He’s staring at his hands like a man haunted, even though the blood has long since been washed off and he’s wearing a new set of clothes complements of a kind nurse that couldn’t stand to see the sight of a son covered in his father’s blood. 

Akabayashi makes two calls. 

_ “I know,”  _ Kyouko says when he rings. “ _ But I can’t be there. It isn’t safe. I’m moving with the twins to our safehouse. Watch Izaya for me, won’t you?” _

And Akabayashi kind of understands, even when he knows he’d be doing anything to be at his partner’s bedside. But he doesn’t have two other children to think of and he’s not Kyouko and his priorities are different. Besides, it’s what Shirou would have wanted. 

The second.

_ “I’m busy,”  _ Shiki hisses. 

“Shirou’s been shot.”

A pause.  _ “Is he going to make it?” _

_ “ _ I don’t know,” he says, honestly. “But Izaya needs you.”

Shiki curses. “ _ I’ll be there in thirty.” _

And the line goes dead. 

There are other things he could do, he knows. He could follow up on the identity of the body he shot, if it even is a body. He could contact the police and arrange for the bribes that will keep him out of prison when this all is through. He should be moving the heir to the Orihara-kai to a safehouse, not leaving him in a poorly defensible hospital. 

Hell, these are all things he  _ should  _ be doing. He does none of them, settling in beside Izaya instead, whose gone curiously and carefully blank.

Akabayashi slings and arm around him, and Izaya leans into it, just a little. Just enough. 

Because Izaya is nothing but a kid with the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

  
  



End file.
